#he retaliated by closing Baker Street

[cocteautwinslyrics]

i can and will end friendships over this game by playing dirty as fuck

#i just lost a game but not before i closed my dad's destination station when he was 1 away and sending him to Lewisham #he retaliated by closing Baker Street

[rey-jake-therapist]

My first Sherlock x OC fanfic excerpt

A couple of weeks ago, after I watched the four seasons of Sherlock for the second time, I said I wanted to write a Sherlock x OC fic. I wanted it to be set post The Final Problem, but I also wanted to explore Sherlock's backstory in my fic. I tried to convince myself it was a bad idea, that I had enough projects, yada yada... But you know how it is.

I started writing chapter 1 and I want to share a bit of it, because... honestly I don't know why. Anyway, first draft, unedited, you've been warned:

London, 221B Baker Street, 2017, six months after Sherringford.

Bang!

Martha Hudson had just put a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits on her table when the loud noise of a gunshot came from the flat above hers. Mrs Hudson welcomed the sound with a grunt and shouted as loudly as she could,

“Sherlock! Leave my damn wall alone!!”

John Watson scoffed; he and his daughter Rosie were briefly visiting his best friend Sherlock Holmes and his landlady, who used to be his as well from the time he was Sherlock’s flatmate, so they could see their goddaughter. Busy working and being a single dad, he hadn’t seen his friends once in weeks. Sherlock had assured his friend that he didn’t want him to stray from his parental obligations and that he would be fine staying on his own, but Sherlock had such a gift for lying and hiding his true feelings that John couldn’t help but be worried. 

“He hasn’t started using again, has he?” John asked. In his arms, Rosie wailed as if she shared her father’s concern for his best friend. 

“Oh, I don’t think so! But with Sherlock, dear, you never know,” Mrs Hudson replied with a plaintive voice. She then asked John to take Rosie in her arms for a hug.

“Does he eat, at least? Did you notice anything out of the ordinary? Does he seem generally happy, or, you know… Agitated?” John insisted softly. 

“What ‘ordinary’ are you talking about? There’s never an ordinary day with Sherlock, you of all people should know that! If you’re worried about him, why don’t you move back here with little Rosie? You obviously still love him dearly and I’m sure having you both close would cheer him up!” Mrs Hudson suggested, with a tone of voice that suggested she still hadn’t accepted the fact that John and Sherlock were never lovers to begin with. 

“Mrs Hudson,” John started as calmly as he could, “I love Sherlock a lot, that much is true; he’s my best friend. But I think you will admit that the proximity of a man who shoots in his wall when he's bored, and chases murderers who sometimes try to kill him in retaliation isn’t the best I can provide to my daughter. Not to mention that there are only two rooms in this apartment, where would Rosie sleep?” 

“Well, I agree that it would probably not be a healthy environment for a little girl… But maybe her presence would force Sherlock to calm down, you know? He’s so good with her already. As for the room, she could take yours, surely?”

“Oh yes, sure,” John was now trying to tone down his impatience as he asked snarkily, “and that would leave me with Sherlock's bedroom as the only option, I guess?”

“Well, remember you said that, not me. I was going to  suggest you replace the couch with a convertible, but you do you!” Mrs Hudson teased him. 

Rosie giggled, mostly amused by Mrs Hudson’s laughing face. John, however, just groaned in response and took Rosie off his friend’s arms, muttering that he wanted to see Sherlock now. 

John found his friend slumped on his armchair, the gun he had just used to shoot the wall still in his hand. As Sherlock didn’t seem to notice his and Rosie’s presences, John cleared his throat and knocked on the door, unwilling to disturb Sherlock's train of thoughts by making a too noisy entrance; when Sherlock was wandering through his mind palace, he hated being interrupted. 

But Sherlock immediately turned his gaze on them and seemed as surprised as he was delighted.

“John! Already back?” Sherlock greeted his former flatmate with a confused tone that seemed genuine. “You seemed so determined to get back to a normal and boring life. I thought I wouldn't get to see you for two weeks, at least…” 

John scoffed, his eyebrows arching. “We haven't been in touch for three weeks! Almost four actually,  Sherlock,” he responded, before adding, tongue in cheek, “oh, the nice feeling of knowing you have been missed… Could you please put the gun down? I’m not very comfortable letting Rosie wander around this apartment with you holding a gun.” 

Sherlock looked at his weapon as if he saw it for the first time, and did as John asked. “Three weeks? Where did all this time go? And more importantly: what did I do?” Sherlock wondered out loud, clearly perplexed. Suddenly, his attention drifted on Rosie, who was exploring the apartment as if she had never seen it before. “Hey, Watson! Come here and give a hug to Uncle Sherlock!” He called on the baby, who walked as fast as her little legs allowed her towards Sherlock, who grabbed her and took a silly voice to make her laugh. John smiled watching them, amused by his daughter’s delighted giggles. Sherlock wasn’t always the best company, but he had always been good with children. 

“You tell me! What have you been up to? Did you get any… Interesting case?”

Sherlock scoffed. “The closest thing I had to a good case was an old lady who was certain that her puddle had been abducted by aliens during the night. Or maybe you’d call the case of a missing teenager ‘interesting’? Surely you would. I found her two hours later, cozied up with the boyfriends no one knew she had. I’m bored, John, so bored I swear the only reason why I haven’t touched the stuff in my room is the promise I made to Molly.” He showed his arm adorned with three nicotine patches. “No drugs, no cigarettes… If boredom was mortal, this apartment would be my tomb,” he continued, looking grim.

“A promise to Molly is a very good reason, though!” John approved, instantly relieved to know Sherlock had stayed clean. “I’m a tiny bit jealous I must say, in five years you never made the effort to make such a promise to me, but oh well. The most important thing is that you don’t do any drugs.”

“I had no choice. Molly threatened to forbid me access to the morgue. Can you believe it?! She said I would never be allowed take anything to my apartment if she caught me using it again. Ever.”

John gave a long low whistle of admiration. “It’s brilliant!” He declared, before letting out a short chuckle as Sherlock glared at him. 

“It’s blackmail!” Sherlock whined, before adding, “but yes, I can concede it was pretty smart of her.”

“You know, you can also just admit her opinion means a great deal to you. You appreciate Molly, and you don’t want to disappoint her again. You could just say that,” John teased his friend. “You could also say the same about me, for that matter,” he thought.

“I have no problem admitting that,” Sherlock grumbled. “Molly almost unscrewed my head from my body the last time she was upset at me; of course I wouldn’t risk it happening again.”

John laughed in disbelief. It was true that Molly had slapped Sherlock hard during the Magnussen case, but he knew he had himself done much worse when he had violently taken his frustration on him and accused him of killing his wife. Yet Sherlock and him had carefully avoided the subject; there was only one time when John had properly apologized to Sherlock, before announcing that he was seeing a therapist again to help him with anger management as well as other things… Like the fact that he needed help to cope with the fact that he had almost died drowning in a well because of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes’ crazy sister Eurus, who also happened to be the woman he had emotionally cheated his wife on with. As Sherlock had admitted between clenched teeth that it was probably a good idea, John had attempted to convert his friend to therapy as well. Sherlock hadn’t outright rejected the idea that what Eurus had put him through hadn’t left him unscathed, but he claimed he was ‘mostly fine’ and would easily move on as long as he could keep working. 

Sherlock, who had let Rosie go after she had expressed with agitated moves that she wanted to be put down, let out a deep sigh of exasperation. “Do I have to murder someone myself to stop being bored?” He groaned; his eyes staring at the ceiling, he wasn't asking John. “Sally Donovan could at last tell you, ‘told you…”

#sherlock #sherlock bbc #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock x oc #first draft #writing #Post season 4 #sherlock holmes #John watson #Molly hooper #Mycroft Holmes #mrs hudson

[archival-account-2]

non-stop. | daisuke kambe [drabble]

❛ 𑁍 pairing: daisuke kambe x cher

❛ 𑁍 scenario: in the dead of the night in 221b baker street, london; in their shared apartment for eight months, give or take

❛ 𑁍 warning: none; completely sfw; heavy, heavy fluff

❛ 𑁍 note: if you sensed any hamilton references, you could tell where i have been; this had been in my drafts for literally three days then episode four dropped-

cher is a host unto herself. as long as she can hold a case file, and a pen and paper, she's a damn threat.

to herself.

she works non-stop; writing day and night, studying day and night, going after the villains day and night with every opportunity she saw. however, even if she's not neck deep in her investigatory works, she'll pop by in charities and social events not (just) to boost her popularity, but also to boost her presence among the citizens of england or of britain, in general.

her strenuous work ethics was the one that brought her to her knees and humble herself to follow the doctor's orders: to rest regularly, to eat regularly, to relax more than usual, to work less than usual — basic simple self-care that she seldom does to her own self.

daisuke noticed that already.

and it's getting on his nerves. strangely.

he has been with haru kato for more than two years, and yet, he was only being nerved by a petite englishwoman who took up a lot after her own father.

he knew it ran in the blood — the frigid blood of a holmes kin that knew no boundaries in the profession of consultant detective.

it seemed so foreign to him still -  the duality of cherloque amelie soleil holmes. 

at one profile, she seemed to show the facade of a flirty and flighty adler - charming robin who knew how to spread her wings and fly in the skies filled with attractive parasites and pests of the british society. she just had a way with words that could be wither seductive, persuasive, and alluring. she also seemed to have an upper hand in every conversation where she's included. she leaves no stray comment and always made sure her words are pointed and sharp in any educated topic. a true mark as the daughter of a dominatrix. 

on the other profile... she's just as controlled, restrained, and unexpressive as a holmes. this kind of a cher conveyed the most inhumane face of all, most especially when a case keeps on pulling her to be involved. there's not time for rest, eating, or leisure. most of her time were always spent sitting on the chair, in front of her father's worn desk; flipping the pages of multiple case files; reviewing similar scenarios that and differentiating multiple changes that could have affected the current motion of the recent crime. she seeked no comfort nor encouragement but only immense silence and centered focus on the task at hand. a true symbol as the kin of a renowned criminologist. 

her duality - despite their fellowship for the past eight months - still fazed daisuke. but he never had the heart to voice it out. he's never the type to express himself in a way that could make people think he's an inferior to a certain woman's little world. 

a world that seemed to be non-stop.

it was in the middle of a dead night, but the two individuals in 221b baker street were still awake - the other one was diligently working in the living room/study, the other one was looking from the doorframe of the guest bedroom. neither one could sleep not could approach each other.

the former was untoucable; the latter was hesitating for once in his life. 

suddenly... there was a vibration in his pajama pocket. daisuke quickly shuffled his back and retrieved his phone, seeing it's a call from mourgane, cher's cousin and the current president of england's top most security association for criminologists. 

"good evening," daisuke greeted. "is there something the matter?"

"an associate passed by the apartment an hour ago, and when he passed by it again three minutes earlier, he informed me that the lights seemed not to go out. may i boldly assume that cher is still awake?"

"yes." daisuke couldn't tell a lie. it was the truth, after all. was there something he missed with the habit?

mourgane sighed on the other line. it was a heavy, distressed one as if she was asking if the toddler was being naughty and she was. mourgane said, "please tell her to go to bed right this instant. i could tell this had been going for a few days behind your back." 

daisuke remained quiet. now that the cousin gave him direct orders, it seemed he really needed to step up and bring it upon himself to put cher to bed.

"is it really my responsibility?" but, of course, he's not just gonna do that directly. after all, it's her own life, not his.

"your partner is your responsibility, mr kambe," mourgane retaliated coolly. "cher, no matter was trait she's possessing at the very moment, is at your disposal. whatever reason we may have, you have the ball in your court and cher, per our agreement for the sake of the japanese partnership and personal relationship gain, have no choice but to follow you." she exhaled as if she was proud of her declaration. "are we clear on that?"

"..."

"mr kambe."

"yes."

mourgane chuckled. she added, "you don't need to be afraid of cher. she may be flighty and feisty... easily aggravated... and snappy. but, at some point, she actually needed someone to remind her that she's not inhumane. i am relying on you." there was a distant knocking heard on the other line. "i have a late night visitor and i will leave my cousin in your capable hands."

daisuke nodded slowly. like before he said, "yes."

"a little note of warning," mourgane piped up. "do not give her narcotics. you will pay with your life if you do."

the line went dead. 

and daisuke could stilm hear the prominent flipping of pages. 

he cannot believe he was thrusted in this situation. but his actions seemed to have their own consequences and he needed suffer for them.

he padded out of the guest bedroom and went in the living room vicinity where cher was working diligently as ever. 

"cher," daisuke said in japanese. "go back to bed."

cher seemed to turn the other cheek, pretending not to hear him. her fingers... they were holding the pen as if her life depended on it. she kept on writing, scribbling, scrawling, jotting down whatever thoughts that raced down in her mind - mostly messy scenarios that were squelching inside her overworked brain.

she's writing non-stop. she's reading non-stop. she's working non-stop. 

"cherloque." daisuke tried again. "i said go back-"

"i heard what you said and i don't want to," cher suddenly snapped, blowing him off in the same language (with slight informality).

daisuke began to wonder how the hell jordan was able to put up with this act with almost every night of her life in 221b baker street. 

'but direct orders from miss holmes mourgane cannot be winged,' daisuke thought, reaffirming himself. 

daisuke, decidedly, took 10 paces forward and stood beside cher's chair. he clasped one hand on her shoulder and, once again, addressed her, saying (with his learned english accent), "love."

it was as if by magic cher suddenly stopped writing, her hand frozen suddenly into place, her body stiffening. 

daisuke leaned down to her body's height and whispered, "go back to bed. now."

cher didn't say anything. but she did shook her head slowly in response. 

'it's either i'm responsible for you or your cousin and my department will responsible for my execution,' daisuke thought, slightly irritated. 'i value my life.'

"you're coming to bed right now." 

daisuke looped one arm below her knees, the other supporting her back; carrying her in a bridal style. cher exclaimed, dropping her pen on the desk. cher was suprised she's suddenly lifted like that without any warning. her face suddenly blossomed a full shade of pink as her arms instinctively wounded themselves around daisuke's neck. her hair flounced up, but because she put it in a really, really, really loose ponytail, it suddenly let loose by itself and her hair brown hair cascaded down. 

"w-wait! daisuke!"

"no. direct orders from your cousin."

"she can't tell you what to do!"

"well, she reminded me you are at my disposal." daisuke looked at her directly with firmness in his gaze, as if scrutinizing her. "love."

cher hunched her shoulders as she crossed her arms, slightly pouting. a total childish move that opposed her holmes ethics. 

she suddenly turned kind of cute. 

"daisuke..."

was she actually whining? he couldn't be sure. 

"my room is in the other way."

her complaint was turned away, just like how she turned her other cheek earlier, because he entered in the guest bedroom where he was residing. without sharing another word, he plopped cher down in the middle of the bed and immediately tucked her in. he didn't give her any chance to speak her mind. 

the night continued on and in the wee morning... someone entered the apartment. 

"there." after tucking her in, daisuke followed suit, lying down next to her but not close enough for skin contact. "now sleep."

it was erebos. he turned to the direction of cher's bedroom. it was vacant. 

he took the other way and entered the japanese police's room.

and there he was - spooning the spent englishwoman in his arms. it was as if he was keeping her warm as possible or keeping her in her damn place, knowing how the night went. 

"i'll be out here," erebos whispered and exited, making himself feel at home in the living room. "goddamn it, haru, you're right. but we're dealing with idiots in denial, not with detectives in love."

#daisuke kambe #daisuke kenbe #daisuke kambe x oc #daisuke kanbe x oc #daisuke x oc #fkbu x oc #daisuke kambe x reader #daisuke kanbe x reader #daisuke x reader #fkbu x reader

[lu-undy]

How about Sniper andSpybaking together? 💕

Thank you so much for this, I loved it :D I hope you will love it too :3

The Frenchman was in his suite. It was Saturday night and he didn’t have any plans although, to be honest, he wished it wasn’t so late in the day. Spy had been watching this TV program about baking and it got him furious. Americans really don’t know the delicateness of the art of making pastries and bread. 

Spy thought back at his time in France, where every few streets was blessed with a boulangerie/pâtisserie, in other words bakeries. He remembered how when he woke up early and took a stroll outside, he would be lucky enough to smell the fruit of the bakers’ hard work. The delicate and warm scent of bread as it was cooking was a delicacy in itself. Then, following the aroma through the streets, he would find the bakery and enter. The Frenchman would see the sea of pastries of gold and chocolate, the different baguettes lie in front of him, from pale beige to darker tones, covered in a thin layer of white flour, like the legs of a million young women of all the corners of the world, wearing thin white laces…

Oh, mon Dieu…  He thought to himself and melted on his sofa at the mere thought of it.

Suddenly, Spy craved it. He wanted some bread. But not any bread, non, of course not. Not that heresy of a square industrial absurdity that Heavy used for his sandwiches, ugh! Non! Spy craved a baguette, one that would take him back where he came from, one that would paint his heart in the three stripes of his country, blue, white and red. 

He jumped out of his seat and rushed to his kitchen. He threw his gloves away, not caring where they would land and washed his hands before putting on an apron. He tied it neatly around his waist and got himself to work. 

Meanwhile in the shower of the bathroom linked to his suite, Spy’s lover cut the water short and exited. He dried himself before slipping on the dark red satin dressing gown that normally belongs to the Frenchman, and tied it before exiting the shower. 

Sniper looked at the sofa where he had left his lover and couldn’t see him. But soon he heard some noises coming from the kitchen and decided to have a look. He slowly pushed the door and took a peek. He saw the slim silhouette of Spy, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and kneading through the dough of the bread on the table which was now covered in flour. The Frenchman seemed focused on the task at hand and didn’t feel the tall Australian come behind him until his naked arms laced around his waist, from behind. 

“Huh?!” He gasped. “You scared me, mon chaton.” 

[my kitten]

Spy leaned in his lover’s embrace and Sniper arms tightened around him. 

“What the hell’re you doin’ this late in the kitchen with yer apron ‘n all?” The Australian peppered kisses in his lover’s neck, on the fabric of the mask. The Frenchman closed his eyes under the sweet attention.

“I am making bread.”

“You are making bread? Now? It must be like what? Past ten in the night, and you’re standin’ here makin’ bread?”

“Oui.”

“Why?”

“Because I want some bread.”

“Can’t it wait for tomorrow? I’ll take ya to town and we’ll get some.”

“Non, I can’t wait.”

“If only you could be that impatient for other stuff…” The Aussie’s hands started exploring under his lover’s apron.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Not now, mon amour. Once I finish the bread, I’ll be yours.”

Sniper dropped his arms sadly.

“Alroight… I’ll go and put some clothes on then…”

He dragged his feet away, heading for the living room when a hand to his wrist firmly stopped him.

“Whot?”

Sniper looked down and saw the prettiest eyes God had made gazing upon him. 

“Come on…” Spy said. “Come and help me with the bread.”

“Oh, I, no, Spook, look, I uh, I’m not good with those things, I mean, a barbecue is as far as I can get b-hm?!”

Spy put his flour-covered index finger on his lover’s lips.

“Stop arguing and go wash your hands before joining me, mon beau.”

[My handsome one]

If there was one man the Australian could not resist, it was this posh one. He had a way to make his voice a mermaid’s song to his ears and his eyes, good Lord his eyes… Spy’s stare was different when he talked to Sniper, it was mellow, it was warm and made the Aussie’s heart swell in his chest.

“Alroight.”

After a minute, Sniper was at Spy’s side.

“So, what do I do?”

“First, remove my gown.”

“Uuuh, luv’, I don’t have much underneath.”

“And…? I fail to see where the problem is, mon amour…” Spy’s voice sung with his French accent. 

“Alroight, as you want.”

Sniper removed the gown and threw it away in the living room.

“Now, what do I do?”

The Australian stood at the doorstep, as clothed as Adam itself.

“If I wasn’t busy with bread,” Spy said, “a lot of things. But here take this.”

He removed the apron and put it on his lover. 

“Oh, thanks luv’ but uh… Aren’t you gonna get yer clothes dirty with flour?”

“Oui, I will. But it doesn’t matter much. Now, please, come next to me.”

Spy split the dough into to equal parts.

“Here is your part. Look at how I knead it and try and follow my gestures.”

“Okay.”

Spy started slowly, stopping at every other movement to see Sniper imitate him and nod in approval. 

“Am-am I doin’ okay? I uh, I don’t wanna destroy yer late night snack, eh.”

“What are you talking about, you are doing great, mon amour. Keep at it. And you are not just doing great…”

Sniper looked at his lover with curious eyes when he saw the Frenchman devour him with his eyes and wink.

“Oh, uh, I see… Ahem… Thanks luv’, you look great too. And it’s not everyday I see you get your fancy clothes dirty.”

“Indeed, it is rare of me to do so.”

“Why’re you doin’ it?”

Spy stopped kneading his half loaf and looked up at his lover. 

“Sniper, how would I keep my clothes clean, hm?”

“With the apron.”

“What would happen if you give it to me?”

“I’d be naked.”

Spy put a hand on his hip.

“And would I be able to continue baking then?”

“Oh… Sorry to be a distraction, then, eh?”

“As if you were sorry…” Spy rolled his eyes and got back to kneading the dough.

Silence fell with their chuckles and they got more focused on the bread.  They rolled the dough and beat it rhythmically and soon, even their breaths and their heartbeats synced with the tempo of their hands; until Sniper broke the silence.

“Hey, look up.”

“Hm?” Spy raised his head and as he did so, the Aussie wiped his flour-covered finger on his nose. “Sniper?!”

“Hahahaha! You look so funny with yer mask and yer white nose!”

Spy frowned and didn’t waste any time to retaliate. He grabbed his lover by his chin and stuck his lips on his. While he kissed him, the Frenchman’s fingers slithered through the Aussie’s hair and the taller man moaned, wrapping an arm around his lover’s waist and pulling him closer. The tender gesture took Spy by surprise and he couldn’t smother his own moan. He had just wanted to use the kiss as a distraction but now that he felt Sniper’s body against his, he couldn’t find it in himself to break the the contact. 

In that sense, he fell in his own trap because he wouldn't admit that what he fell for was first and foremost Sniper's charm, the touch of his hands and the slickness and slowness of his lips. Spy's hands ended up on his lover's sideburns, the short thick hairs brushing his fingertips. 

Eventually, the Australian broke the kiss, but not the embrace. He looked down at the object of his desires.

"I love ya." He said low, with his gravelly voice. "I bloody love ya." 

"So do I, Santa Claus."

Sniper's eyebrows shot up. 

"Whot did you call me?!" 

"Look at yourself."

The Aussie's eyes went to the metallic face of the oven and saw his reflection. 

"Shit I look at least twenty years older!"

Spy shaped the loaves of bread into baguettes and put them on the oven tray. 

"Pardon, mon vieil amour." 

Sniper stepped aside and his lover put the bread in the oven.

"Whot did you call me this time?"

"My old love." 

"Yer old-oi! You're older than me!"

Spy closed the oven and smirked. 

"I might be older but you definitely look older now."

"Tsk…!"

Both chuckled. 

"So, how long before we can eat yer baguettes now?" 

"About half an hour." 

"Hm… Plenty o'time…" Sniper answered, pulling Spy from his waist. 

"Oof-time for what?" The Frenchman asked, feigning innocence, his hands sliding up his lover's chest on the apron. 

"Time for me to remove this ridiculous apron and wear a suit."

"You want to wear a suit?!" Spy exclaimed. 

"No you wanker! I meant time to remove the apron and… Y'know…"

"What?" Spy pushed his luck. 

"Oh Lord, how thick you are sometimes…" 

Sniper removed the apron and put it away, when he turned to face his lover, the Frenchman pushed himself to the tip of his toes and latched onto the Aussie's lips. Sniper chuckled and reciprocated the kiss as his fingers undid the buttons of Spy's shirt. 

As the two lovers got more passionate and hotter, the baguettes were slowly rising and hardening...

#tf2 spy #tf2 sniper #sniperspy

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Burned Part 24

Summary:  Alfie Solomons is in need of a secretary. Tommy Shelby mentions a young woman in need of employment. From there the two step into a dangerous dance together.

Part 23: 

           “Fucking hell, Tommy, you really need glasses don’t you?”

           It took Alfie a full breath to realize he hadn’t been shot and was still very alive. He heard the bullet zip right by his ear but never made contact with flesh. “You’ve gone blind or have you got the shakes now?”

           Tommy didn’t say a word, instead, he simply waited.

           “Alfie?” Louise came running out of the cottage only moments later. She was holding her gun, ready to shot Tommy Shelby if need be. But she was relieved to see both men were still standing and unharmed.

           “It’s alright, Louise, I was just showing Alfie this new pistol,” Tommy called back to her standing on the dunes.

           Alfie’s wife looked irritated. “Well, I don’t appreciate you both firing off without warning. The baby is trying to sleep.”

           The Jewish gangster became choked up and couldn’t speak. He simply stared at her standing there with a gun in hand.

           “Sorry, we’ll keep it down.” Tommy nodded and fiddled with his gun, letting the last bullet left in the barrel to fall out into his palm.

           “Breakfast will be done soon, Alfie.” Louise continued. “Come inside when you’re done.” And with that, she returned inside.

           Tommy walked over and placed the bullet in Alfie’s hand. “See that? She would’ve come out and shot me for what I did to you.” He explained in a low voice. “Then, what’d you think would happen, aye? I’ve got a family of fucking animals, ‘ccording to you.”

           Alfie was speechless, something he seldom was. His fingers curled around the bullet in a delayed response.

           “Arthur isn’t dead.” Tommy continued speaking as he returned the gun into the inside of his coat. “Luca Changretta is. Whatever you’ve done, you did it to protect her and your son. I can understand that. I would’ve done the same thing. You’re retired now so we can put this matter to rest. I can mentor Ollie, if you’d like, let him work your bakery back up. That’ll be the end of fighting between the Blinders and the Jews. But if I hear you’ve been involved with the business again, I won’t miss.” Tommy said firmly. “Trust me when I say Louise would much rather have you around for the time you’ve got left. Because you don’t know how long you have. Could be years. Years that you would be better off spending with your wife and boy.”

           Alfie slowly pocketed the bullet as if he were accepting the terms of Tommy’s new lease on his life. “You’ve got more planned, Tommy?” He asked.

           The Blinder reached for a cigarette. “I do.” He answered curtly. “Business you won’t want to be involved with, too legitimate for your liking.”

           Alfie nodded and sighed. “Done with doing all the dirty work, aye? Think you’ll get tired of it, mate.”

           “Well, until then, I’ll be alright. As will you.” Tommy held out his hand to shake.

           The other man obliged.

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

           The walk up the dunes was much longer than it appeared. Alfie kept his palm wrapped around the bullet in his pocket. His heart was still beating unbearably fast. He’d nearly gone through with taking his own life via Tommy Shelby. According to plan, he shouldn’t have been walking back up to the cottage.

           But Tommy was dead on. Had Louise seen Alfie bleeding out in the sand, she would’ve shot him without hesitating. Whether it be because of a broken heart, revenge, or in fear she and Teddy were the next victims. Then what next? The Blinders would be after her for killing their kin. Alfie felt stupid for not even considering retaliation from his wife. Without question, she would seriously injure or kill anyone who attacked her family.

           Things were just as he’d left them. The moment he walked out the door assuming he wouldn’t walk back. Louise was finishing up in the kitchen and Teddy was still fast asleep in his bassinette.

           “Honestly, sometimes I wonder about that man.” Louise huffed. “Shooting a gun when he damn well knows Teddy is up here. Scared me half to death, I thought he’d killed you!”

           Alfie felt like he couldn’t breathe. He was overwhelmed with the feeling of happiness. Being given a new lease on life with the woman he loved. “It were my fault.” He excused weakly.

           “Hmpf, men and their guns.” She shook her head and placed two plates down at the small breakfast nook.

           He smiled and hugged her. “You’re lovely.” He murmured softly and kissed her cheek. There didn’t seem like any other route he wanted to take. He thought disposing of himself would be easiest for everyone involved. But perhaps Tommy was right. Louise kept him stronger and kept him fighting. With her, by his side, he had a chance of living out at least a few more years. Maybe even a bit longer without the stress of the bakery on his shoulders. Still, it didn’t matter if he dropped dead the next day. As long as he knew he was going peacefully with Louise. For so long he assumed he would die by the sword, die by the lifestyle he so viciously pursued. But maybe cancer was just a bigger sword. A bigger battle he had to face. And he had faced so many battles with Louise by his side. What was one more?

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

           Retirement was a lot easier when you had a growing baby to raise. Alfie was sure that if they didn’t have Teddy he’d be driving himself and Louise crazy with boredom. He had grown into the role as a family man and by Hanukah, he felt perfectly comfortable as a father.

           They hadn’t been back at Camden together since Louise gave birth to Teddy. It was nice to be in the countryside or on the shores in Margate but it was also lovely to be back with family and friends. Back to the place where Louise and Alfie fell in love.

           Ollie’s house sparked with noise when they saw Alfie enter with a little bundle in his arms. He smiled and nodded. “Alright, alright, start the bidding at three pounds, who wants him first?”

           “Oh, Alfie.” Louise sighed and rolled her eyes at him auctioning over their baby.

           Tante Raisa managed to get a hold of Teddy first. She cradled the baby close and whispered soft Yiddish blessings to him. “Alfie, such a handsome boy!” She exclaimed while Alfie took his wife’s coat. “You both must be so proud.”

           “What’s the name then?” Ollie walked over with two of his kids hanging off his legs. “Alfie Jr?”

           His former boss laughed and shook his head. “Louise wouldn’t let that one happen. Theodore Solomons. We call him Teddy.” He answered and looked fondly at his son in Raisa’s arms.

           “But we gave him a Hebrew name as well,” Louise added with a smile. “Tovi.”

           “My good,” Alfie explained the meaning of the name.

           Raisa smiled warmly and touched Teddy’s cheek. “I’m sure he’ll bring you a lot of good.” She turned. “Eva, come see the baby!” She exclaimed.

           “And he’s not our problem for the rest of the evening.” Alfie teased and wrapped an arm around his wife’s waist. She smiled and allowed herself to be tempted away by Vera and Evelyn. Alfie watched as she happily fawned over Evelyn’s engagement ring. Ishmael had finally proposed once he got a substantial cut from Alfie’s retirement.

           The small apartment was full of good spirits and warm hearts. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood and reflecting on the year. After the meal, Ollie stood up to make a bit of a toast.

           “I just wanted to say another congratulation to Evelyn and Ishmael for their engagement. It’s about time.”

           Ishmael’s face turned red but he smiled and wrapped an arm around his fiancée who looked overjoyed.

           “And Alfie and Louise. Who knew a little boy would be the thing to make him retire.” Ollie joked.

           Louise laughed softly. Teddy was fast asleep in her arms despite the celebration around him. She glanced over and half expected Alfie to be there but she didn’t see him. Frowning, she scanned the party in the parlor to find her husband. Still, there was no sight of him.

           “Alfie?” Ollie realized the man wasn’t in the room either. “Did he step out?”

           Louise sighed. “Shay, will you take Teddy?” She handed the baby to Ollie’s wife before stepping out of the apartment. The winter air was a big shock after being in the warm company of family.

           She shivered and pulled on her coat, wrapping it tightly around herself. The streets of Camden were empty; most were inside celebrating the holidays. The apartments lining the streets were all lit up, casting a glow over the freezing, gray streets.

           There was only one place Alfie would be in Camden. So she began walking down the lane to the bakery, which wasn’t too far from Ollie’s.

~~~~~~~~~~

           The doors were still as heavy as always when Louise pushed her shoulder against them. She was relieved to see her husband standing in the center of the bare bakery. His heavy black coat and wide-brimmed hat making him the largest thing in the room.

           “Alfie?” She spoke quietly so she didn’t startle him.

           He turned and smiled weakly. “What’re doing here, love?”

           “You came up missing and I assumed you came here.” She walked over to him, her heels clicking loudly across the concrete floor and echoing. “Ollie was toasting you.”

           He chuckled and ran a hand over his beard. “That right? Well, glad I wasn’t there. Don’t usually like being called out like that.” He shrugged sheepishly and held out a hand to her.

           She took it and let him pull her close, burying her in his warm layers. His scent had changed after his retirement. No longer did he smell like rum on a daily basis. Instead, he had taken on the scent of Margate, even if he didn’t realize it. Louise inhaled softly and relished in the comforting scent of sandalwood. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to his chest. Alfie kissed the scarf covering her hair.

           “What are you thinking?” She asked quietly. It was so strange being inside the bakery again. It didn’t feel like the same place now that it was so empty. It felt like a ghost town without the shouts of the bakers, sounds of heavy boots, the loud clanging of machinery, and the occasional barking from Alfie. The building had lost its soul. But it didn’t make her sad; it only made her nostalgic in a way.

           “First met you here, didn’t I?” He murmured. “Right out there, standing like a lost little flower.”

           She smiled and looked up at him. “With a few missing petals.”

           He nodded and ran a thumb down her cheek. “This is where I fell in love with you.”

           Louise gratefully leaned into his touch. “Mhm…”

           “This is where I killed that fucking terrible excuse for a human.” He grumbled and subtly glanced over to the spot where Daniel had finally fallen after stabbing him.

           Louise hardly even thought about her ex. Barely even considered him her late husband anymore. He was simply a man she had unwittingly fallen for and learned the hard truth of life. She didn’t want to waste time thinking about him when she had such a beautiful family in the present moment.

           “And I thought I lost you for good because of what I’d fucking done.” He sighed quietly. “Just thought it would make things better.”

           “I know.” Louise murmured softly. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

           He shook his head. “Lou, all I’ve ever wanted, right, was for you to be happy.”

           “I am happy.”

           A chill rushed through the drafty building and Alfie tightened his arms around her to keep her warm. “Maybe I don’t know what’s best for you. Everything I’ve done…”

           “Alfie,” She touched a finger to his lips. “What’s really on your mind?” Sometimes it was much better to interrupt his long rambling speeches because they were merely words that covered up his true thoughts.

           He took a deep breath. “I’m scared of leaving you.”

           “You’re not going anywhere, love, you’re right here.” She grazed her knuckles over his beard.

           His throat tightened. “What if I only have a few months left, Louise?” He whispered. “Hardly enough time for Teddy to even remember me fucking face.”

           “I would never let him forget you.” She insisted firmly. “I know we have more time together, I can feel it. You’re not going anywhere anytime soon. And no matter how much time we have left, I’ll be taking care of you, right by your side the entire time.”

           He dipped his head down and touched his cheek to hers. “I’m scared.” His voice was weaker than she’d ever heard it. “Lou, I’m so scared, don’t want to leave you and Ted.”

           “Sh, it’s okay, love.” Louise held him close in the center of the bakery. “Whatever time we have left we’ll make the most of it. I’m just so glad you’re here with me now. You're allowed to be scared, I am too. But in the end, we'll all be okay.”

           Alfie nodded and realized Tommy made the right decision for him. “I’m glad you’re here with me too.” He held his wife. His beautiful wife. The woman who had given him his son. It was one thing to wait for Death to arrive and take him by the hand, it was another to turn his back to the devil and focus on the things he loved in the living world.

Permanent Tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla​ @giftofdreams​

Tag list: @vehement-care​ @kimmietea​ @eleventhdoctorsangel​ @fire-treasure-iii​

Masterpost

Masterlist

#alfie solomons #alfie solomonsxoc #alfie solomons x oc #alfie solomons imagine #peaky blinders #peaky blinder imagine #peaky fookin blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #fanfiction #ofc #oc #tommy shelby #tom hardy #tom hardy character

[shadydreamerdonut]

@miss-atropine Thank you for indulging my creative fantasies. Apologies for it being obscenely long. Vampire Nellie and Werewolf Sweeney. 

All was quiet except for the crackling of a flame in the fireplace. Casting the parlor room in warm, soft orange light. Mrs. Lovett watched with a smile as Toby slept peacefully on the futon that she’d setup for them on the floor. The dog that they had adopted spooned against him for warmth. Once she was certain that nobody would be lurking the ominous London streets, she moved to grab her cloak and head out into midnight darkness. Silent and frigid. The wind cold against her cheeks. Only Sweeney knew about her witching hour endeavors to the nearby cemetery. Along with the conventional characteristics she inherited as a vampire, a skill unique to her surfaced. Mrs. Lovett could see and communicate with ghosts. Initially afraid that Sweeney would not believe her. The maniacal barber reassured her with a mask of indifference. That he had no reason to doubt this revelation. And to her surprise was already aware of these evening ventures. Then it clicked to the petite redhead, that poor git never slept a wink.

Obviously he would see her depart from the shop doors every night. He only had one question. Had she ever seen Lucy. Mrs. Lovett looked down, her face paling. No, she admitted. But explained to him that meant his wife was at peace. He appeared to take comfort from that.

What she sought to do during these cemetery trips was to visit with these unassuaged ghosts and help them find the peace to move forward. Gifting a child a treasured toy that they missed and needed to finally rest soundly. Maybe for somebody older, it would be a family portrait. Or the wedding band that had been robbed from them. The ability of stealth made it easy for her to go and acquire these objects for them. Sometimes, they just needed help finding a loved one so that they could give them a proper goodbye. Many of these disturbed souls, now would flock to her.

Hoping that the petite redhead could help fulfill their deepest wishes. As understandably, they were weary and longed for slumber. That evening, she had just finished talking to a wrinkled and elderly man about his wish to sing to his wife, at least once more. She held their hand as they spoke, their voice thick with tears. Planting the lightest kiss on their temple, promising that they could go now and find them. Especially if he remembered his residence which he did. The baker warned him that his wife may not live there anymore but that there was no harm in checking. She found even more fulfillment in this work than she did in baking for customers. And sometimes, they ghosts would offer a gift in return. A little girl once gave her a drawing that they had colored on a crinkled page of parchment. It was one of her most cherished positions. A sudden rustling behind the trees pulled her from the conversation she was having with the older man. Ghosts did not make noises, they could speak. But because they no longer lived in materialized forms, their roaming about was soundless. It was probably just a small animal but it still put her on edge, chewing on her bottom lip. The threat of being jumped was always there. But she had been lucky so far to never have to encounter it. At least, until tonight.

Men, more than one chuckled. Full of mirth. Mrs. Lovett’s stomach did a summersault but she didn’t falter or move from her spot. Calling out “Show yourselves! Jelly-boned little louses.” Their laughter stopped and the baker reached for the side pocket of her skirt, pulling out a scalpel. A meat cleaver was always too unwieldy to carry around or use to deskin corpses.

“Please…be careful.” The elderly widower whispered to her, placing an affectionate hand on her shoulder.

She gave them a loving smile. “Don’t worry.”

Standing, wincing a bit as her knees protested. Stepping toward where she had heard the goons. Soon letting out a blood-curling shriek, as an arm wrapped around her middle and forcefully pulled her back. Her head lolled back against their shoulder then she hurried to wriggle free. Taking the scalpel and blindly aiming for their arm, dragging the blade against their skin. Hearing them cry out in pain. Their hold faltering enough for her to scurry forward. Nearly tripping over her own feet on the uneven terrain.

Heavy footsteps of the other foes loud between her ears. She couldn’t escape them all. Mrs. Lovett would be damned if she didn’t at least try, she decided adamantly. Deciding running would be fruitless so she held the scalpel close, ready to retaliate. Not expecting another sudden attack from behind as they yanked the petite woman back by her long red curls. Gasping loudly, the pain disorienting her as they pulled her to the tree, pinning her with a strong hand around her neck, jagged nails digging into her skin. Before Mrs. Lovett could pull free the hand wielding her scalpel, they – seemingly out of nowhere – drove a stake right beside her head. The snap of the wood cracking made her jump. Dropping her only weapon as she was filled with dread. A wave of nausea washing over her. They knew she was a vampire.

His breath was hot against her and she already felt like she was suffocating, he moved his hand from her neck but still had a unwavering hold on her, another person from behind began tying her hands together and using another stake to pin them above her head. So dizzy, that if it weren’t for the ropes and men holding her upright, she was certain she would fall face forward.

Before beginning their assault, they held a clove of garlic up to her nose and laughed out how just an inhale of the deplorable stench brought on a coughing fit. She wheezed, struggling to catch her breath. A moment later she could hear was the pounding of her own heart, deafeningly between her ears as a leather-gloved hand began to hitch up her skirts.

Mrs. Lovett looked up, her vision blurred with tears as she struggled to blink them back. Beams of the full moon fell on her face, she swallowed hard. The trees whistled. And there was a loud howl in the distance. “Sweeney…” She whispered hoarsely.

#sweeney todd #sweenett #mrs lovett

[silentauroriamthereal]

F and I for the fanfic ask game ❤️

Hmm, good questions! 

F: Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

Man, this is tough! I couldn’t decide between a funny/lighter scene or a dramatic one, so I went with the first (though the rest of the fic is heavy enough - heed the warnings if you choose to click!). This comes from the opening of my story The Impossible Word: 

They laugh all the way to Baker Street and stagger up the stairs. Later Sherlock will realise that he has no idea which of them paid, or how. Or if. (It doesn’t matter.) John pulls his jacket off and throws it on the floor, then kicks his shoes off in different directions before charging into the kitchen to fill two tea mugs with whiskey. “Get ice,” he orders, and Sherlock ambles happily over to the freezer to see if there are any ice cubes after taking off his suit jacket. Too tight.

He eschews the bag of frozen toes (though they would cool the whiskey just as well and the alcohol content would take care of any bacteria, John would likely object) and to his surprise, discovers that there is indeed a full ice tray. He brings the whole thing over to the whiskey and is surprised by how difficult it seems to be to get the ice out. He manages it after a bit, fingers clumsily dropping in handfuls of cubes into the whiskey and onto the floor (the latter not planned, but nevertheless). “Whoops,” he says mildly, and holds the tray out to John. “Put it back by the toes.”

John takes it without arguing and looks at the ice on the floor. “You’re drunk,” he proclaims.

Sherlock frowns. “Not really,” he says, but it’s not a very strong protest. John is probably right. “Not very,” he amends.

John tosses the ice tray into the freezer without looking and comes back over. “Cheers,” he says, picking up his mug and banging it harder than necessary against Sherlock’s.

“Cheers,” Sherlock echoes, and takes a long drink. The whiskey starts warm and ends cool as the ice takes immediate effect – interesting, he thinks. Maybe not that interesting. Never mind.

John wanders over to his chair and sits down. “Fire?”

Sherlock goes to join him. “You can light one if you want.”

John thinks about it, then expels his breath through his lips, making a silly sound. “Too much work.”

“Agreed.” Sherlock gets himself into his chair, carefully trying not to spill his whiskey, though the mug is half-empty already.

“Game?” John asks.

“Have you become monosyllabic?”

“What?”

“That,” Sherlock says, gesturing vaguely with his mug. Some of the whiskey sloshes over and onto his hand, somehow. He drinks more of it to solve the problem. “You. You’ve gone mono- monospyllakic.” He tries again, concentrating. “Monosyllabic,” he pronounces carefully.

“No,” John says, frowning at him.

Sherlock starts to laugh, through his nose. “You did it again! ‘Fire. Game. What? No!’” He imitates, still laughing.

“Shaddup,” John drawls. He’s half slid down in his chair and puts his feet on the edge of Sherlock’s, one on either side of his legs.

Sherlock is slightly surprised to find that their chairs are close enough for John to do that. Did one of them move them closer? He can’t remember. “I’m surprised your legs can reach,” he comments lightly, but he can’t quite repress the grin that comes out with it.

“Fuck you,” John says amiably. “Just because I haven’t got ten-mile-long stork legs doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with mine.”

“No, they serve you quite well,” Sherlock says seriously. “They reach the ground and convey you about on it, as I recall. And I don’t have stork legs. They’re just longer than yours.”

John lifts one of his legs to kick Sherlock in the knee with the underside of his heel. “Cock,” he says.

“One syllable again,” Sherlock says. “You’re good at this game! If only I had realised years ago that your secret brilliance lay in your ability to speak like a Neanderthal.”

“Oh, that’s it,” John says, and kicks him again. Sherlock retaliates by putting his legs in John’s lap and digging his toes into John’s stomach. John starts to laugh in his high-pitched giggle and grabs at his feet. “Don’t!”

“Another single syllable – you really – ”

“Don’t, I’m ticklish, you bastard!” John gripes, still gasping. He struggles to sit upward, then launches himself across the small space, hauling Sherlock out of his chair and onto the floor.

Sherlock is glad he took off the jacket; as it is, the tightness of his shirt is hampering his movements somewhat. It comes untucked as they wrestle and that helps, but then John gets him on his back again, pinning him, tickling him and Sherlock is helpless with laughter. “Stop!” he begs, and John rolls off him, both of them panting with laughter as they lie on their backs, recovering.

And then John reaches over and puts his hand directly on Sherlock’s crotch.

(Read the rest here, if you like!)

I: Do you have a guilty pleasure in fic (reading or writing)?

Nah, I don’t really believe in guilty pleasures, in the sense of being ashamed of liking something. Well - there are lines, I suppose, but no, nothing that I enjoy reading or writing would cross any of mine! I do rather enjoy drawing out the torturous awkward phases before the resolution. Okay - maybe writing known tropes, which is something I generally avoid. I’ve only actively, knowingly done it twice, for my two fake-couple-for-a-case stories (Bridging the Ravine and The Bells of King’s College). 

#johnlocklover221

[solongbird]

A Tiny Bit of History of The LGBT Rights Movement

So, last year in my history class we had to write a paper about something that's important to us, and I wrote about a tiny bit of the LGBT Rights Movement. And I’m quite proud of it... so enjoy.

-------------------------------------

In the morning of June 28, 1969, the police raided the Stonewall Inn. In retaliation, the patrons fought back against this injustice because the only reason the police had to raid the bar was that the patrons were gay. The riots lasted 6 days, this brought more attention to the LGBT rights movement, hence most people naming this a very influential moment in LGBT history. So big that June has become LGBT pride month. Then a year later after this event one of the first pride festivals was held on Christopher Street. Then on June 24, 2016, President Barack Obama made the Stonewall Inn and the surrounding area a national monument.

Before December 15, 1973, the American Psychiatric Association (ASA) regarded homosexuality as a mental illness, when in all actuality isn't if you did not know. So when they realized this amazing unknown detail sent out a resolution removing homosexuality from the list of mental illnesses. And do to this change many individuals views of homosexuality changed to a kinder light.

When the LGBT rights movement began many people used the pink triangle seeing as there was no other symbol to use. Sadly this pink triangle didn't have the best past, seeing as the pink triangle was used as a way for Nazis to identify gay individuals. So Harvey Milk unhappy with the symbol commissioned Gilbert Baker to make a new symbol. Gilbert happily accepted the proposition seeing as he had been fancying the idea for a while at this point. So with a few days before the San Francisco's Gay Freedom Day Parade himself and 30 volunteers coop themselves up in the attic of the Gay Community center. The original design consisted of 8 colors each representing something. Hot pink was for sex, red for life, orange for healing, yellow to represent sunlight, green for nature, turquoise for art, indigo for harmony, and lastly violet for spirit. When June 25th, 1978 rolled around this flag was being flown throughout the parade and people fell in love with it, so much so that Gilbert decided to get it properly printed turning to Paramount Flag Company who decided to edit the flag for practicality reasons. They removed pink and turquoise for blue, and that is how we got our beautiful flag.

Harvey Milk was a politician who inspired many LGBT individuals. He helped create one of the first  LGBT friendly communities, he helped unite communities and businesses, he stopped the Briggs Initiative and he did so much more. But sadly on November 27, 1978, Dan White entered into the basement of the San Francisco City Hall and assassinated the mayor and Harvey. This was sadly foreseen by Harvey so much so that he created wills, and in one of these wills, one of his most famous quotes was found, “If a bullet should enter my brain, let that bullet destroy every closet door.”  His death inspired many LGBT individuals to come out, one such individual was his nephew, Stuart Milk was very close to his uncle. And in honor of Milk, a statue was built of him was built.

In 2003 Massachusetts became the first state to legalize same-sex marriage, 34 states followed suit until finally on June 26, 2015, same-sex marriage was legalized across all 50 states.

But even though same-sex marriage was legalized the LGBT rights movement is far from over. In 30 states there are no anti-discriminatory laws for LGBT individuals, and if there is it is barely sufficient. Then in 73 countries, it is illegal to be LGBT and in 8 of said countries, you can be killed. And finally, only 26 countries (out of 195) is it legal to marry your same-sex spouse. So yeah we still got a big hill to climb. But am I saying that the progress we have made is bad? No! The progress we have made is outstanding, and I sadly couldn't cover every single event in all of LGBT history, hence why I suggest you should do your own research, it is seriously so much fun and a really informative, and also check out all the sites I used because I couldn't fit every tad bit of info on the sites. Thanks for reading.

Resources:

https://www.weforum.org/agenda/2018/06/lgbti-rights-around-the-world-in-2018/

https://www.freedomforallamericans.org/states/

https://www.pewforum.org/2015/06/26/same-sex-marriage-state-by-state/

http://milkfoundation.org/about/harvey-milk-biography/

https://www.history.com/news/how-did-the-rainbow-flag-become-an-lgbt-symbol

https://www.hrc.org/blog/flashbackfriday-today-in-1973-the-apa-removed-homosexuality-from-list-of-me

https://www.history.com/topics/gay-rights/the-stonewall-riots

#lgbt #history #class project #lgbt history #harvey milk #stonewall #gay #rights movement

[giftapfelina]

A Very Merry Unbirthday

Chapter 2: Madhouse

I hate mornings.

Even as the effects of sleep has faded away, the thought whirls around Lorina’s fuzzy head. Poking the fluffy texture of scrambled eggs with her finger, she stares accusingly at her sister’s back.

Apparently, her dear sister, Edith, finds it’s a brilliant idea to scream into Lorina’s ear while she is asleep. While it effectively does prove to be the best wake-up call, Edith disregards the fact that it almost gives Lorina a heart attack and sends her to kingdom come.

Lorina closes her eyes tiredly, letting her finger slips further into the breakfast.

There’s the sound of bird chirpings, greeting the first break of dawn.

There’s the faint barking of an enthusiastic dog from afar; probably the baker’s son taking his golden receiver out for its usual, morning walk.

There’s the chattering of a couple, who live in the cottage across theirs, stomp about, slam doors as they hurry for their daily morning routine.

Lorina is about to be lulled back to sleep when Edith gives her nose a well-aimed flick.

“Ow! What was that for?” protests Lorina, cupping the reddening spot. Edith stands there, grinning. “For sleeping on me. Didn’t you hear what I was talking about?”

“Should I?” Lorina fakes interest, looking out the nearest window and seriously considering jumping out of it.

“Of course!” cries Edith passionately, jumping into Lorina’s line of vision. The grimacing girl, however, could almost see hearts in Edith’s eyes—that could only mean one thing. “I was talking about the formal audience. The Red Army is scouting for King Lancelot’s dance partner!”

Lorina let out a heavy sigh. “I sincerely hope something hinders you from going.”

“Don’t you start!” Edith jumps her sister, shaking the girl violently. “You already cursed me last year! I was coughing my guts out because you forbade me from meeting the love of my life!”

The look Lorina gives Edith is absolutely dead-pan. She’s dead exhausted; last night, she had to clean up the mess that Kyle dude had unintentionally left, while at the same time a certain hatter was being a total jerkass. Adding to that, the lack of sleep has her temper on short fuse.

“I’m done. It’s too early to deal with this,” she claims, moving to get up, but the firm grip on her shoulder tells her otherwise.

Edith continues to smile sweetly at the taller girl. The sparkle in her eyes indicates any other objections will henceforth forever fall on deaf ears. “Lorina~”

“No, I refuse,” Lorina says immediately, not needing to know what kind of task her insane sister would demand. Her hands are already grabbing the threshold to shake the girl off but Edith is equally if not more relentless.

“Can you let go?” Lorina asks impatiently when Edith begins to grasp the hem of her pants, not letting her sister leave. At least not without having her dignity in tatters.

“Let go.”

“Let go.”

“Let go.”

Before they know it, Edith is dragging Lorina through the bustling streets of the Central Quarter. The Chattaway sisters look exceptionally beautiful, as they are now clothed in ones of their best clothes.

In the beginning, Lorina did try to make a run for it, but Edith was no easy match as she forced Lorina into the dress.

Lorina glances over at her sister. They may be siblings, but Lorina has always felt Edith is the more favoured one. While Lorina prioritizes hard work, Edith would charm her way to the top. Even her hair shines radiantly, quickly catching the eyes of men around her.

The older sibling looks down at the peachy hand wrapped around her more tanned one, watching in a daze as their family heirloom—a silver bracelet dangling innocently around Edith’s wrist.

Lorina unknowingly furrows her eyebrows.

Unbeknownst to the girls, a man is observing them from afar. He isn’t the most striking chap out there, yet the lithe young man with a genuine smile and prominent cheeks is exactly what people see—the only son and heir to the aristocratic Godspeed family.

“Fenrir, what is it?” a sandy-haired girl approaches him, noticing the hint of fondness in his eyes.

There was a time where one of the Chattaway sisters used to joke how dazzling Fenrir Godspeed’s smile was. So dazzling that he could blind an entire squad of bullies. Ever since then, the two girls have been important figures in his youth.

“Oh, just saw some friendly faces,” says Fenrir offhandedly, smiling.

The girl looks over his shoulder, seeing only the back of a black-haired girl, disappearing in the direction of the Red Bridge.

“As I just said, state your business.”

It isn’t uncommon there are biased, anecdotal views of the Red Army. As a neutral Cradle resident, Lorina tries not to get involved with politics. And she does this by not taking sides, but at the moment, the Red Army is making it hard not to.

Particularly this gate guard, who pulls out the inspection card on Edith and her. Lorina assumes it’s because they don’t appear ‘trustworthy’ enough.

Talk about power abuse, Lorina thinks sourly.

“I told you, we’re simply going to attend the interview,” insists Edith, though she too is beginning to lose patience. “Please let us through.”

“Last time a commoner is let into the headquarters, we were reduced to humiliation by that lowlife Ace of Spades,” says the man, gritting his teeth in reminiscent anger.

Lorina smirks smugly. She’d have to thank a certain gun-wielding maniac for that. “Why? It’s not our fault that you’re not trained well,” she retaliates dully, ignoring the nudge Edith sends her as well as the soldier’s hostile once-over. “Look, buddy; sooner or later, you’ve to let us in.”

“Or what?” his hand inches closer to his sword.

“Cause I really need to pee, like right now.”

There’s a taut pause, and then the man splutters. “Y-you’re kidding, right?”

“On the contrary, good sir! My sister has a rather small bladder,” chimes Edith, clueless to his flustered expression. “But she’s rather good at aiming! Would you like a demonstration?”

“No, thank you!” the blushing soldier has all but screamed. “You’re free to go inside!”

“You sure?” asks Lorina, hands lifting the hem of her skirt up, revealing her ankles. That manages to scare him as he takes a huge step back, frantically dismissing them.

The ladies then casually continue their way, the disturbed look of the soldier following their retreating forms. Once they are out of view, Edith glomps Lorina, forcing kisses on each of her cheeks. “Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou! See, I told you coming here would do you good! Breathing the same air as King Lancelot clears your head! Amazing, isn’t it?”

Lorina begrudgingly rubs her cheeks. “Your number of thank yous is amazing.”

“Oh, look at the time! We need to hurry!” When Edith tries to grab Lorina, Lorina swiftly dodges her hand.

“You go on,” Lorina indicates at the head entrance, where a cluster of girls is gathering. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I had to pee.”

Edith has a disbelieving look on her face. “Again? You and your unavoidable visits to every restroom…Alright, meet me somewhere in the middle of the queue. Hear me? Don’t you dare run away!”

With a dismissive wave, Lorina hurries away in search of the restroom.

Lorina somehow manages to give herself an unprompted tour of the place. It’s definitely not her first time at the luxurious barrack of the Red Army, yet she can’t seem to recall the way leading to the ladies’ room.

“Why the heck do they have so many rooms?” Lorina mumbles to herself as she trudges along one of the halls. The sound of her footsteps is muffled by the richly-carpeted floors. Paintings of previous Kings and Queens adorn the walls, making her feel as if she is being watched by their expressionless eyes.

In her haste to get away from the creepy ‘hall of fame’, Lorina rounds a corner too quickly that she almost run into a surprised pair of blue eyes. With a gasp, the brunette narrowly avoids bumping smack dab into the person.

Their eyes meet, and Lorina swears her heart has skipped a beat.

Edith will be jealous when she hears this.

“Who are you?” asks the King of Hearts, narrowing his eyes. “This side of the building is off-limits to visitors.”

Lorina has a feeling that if he doesn’t like the answer, there will be serious consequences. Everything, from his polished shoes and his cape to the tip of his blond hair, just emits an air of authority.

She straightens immediately, praising herself for not sweating buckets under his steely gaze. “King Lancelot, sir, I seem to have lost my way from the crowd,” she inwardly flinches at the increasing falsetto in her voice. “Would you happen to know the way to the restroom?”

A dawning look flickers across his face, softening his gaze a bit. “Ah—you must be one of the girls who is being scouted for the dance…”

Lorina’s face reddens slightly at that. “Uh…it’s very unlikely that I will be chosen for that but yeah, that’s…the idea.”

It must be hard to evoke emotions in this bloke of ice, but at the moment Lorina barely manages to detect the tiniest smile forming on the corners of his lips. “If you walk down the hallway from here, you’ll see the ladies room on your right side.”

“Ah…cool—I mean, that’s good to know,” Lorina grimaces in a sad attempt to smile. “Thank you, your majesty.”

“Yeah.” Lorina pointedly ignores the brief shiver running down her back as she hightails out of there. He has a nice voice.

Thump! Thump!

The several bangs on the door surprise Lorina. Scowling at the reflection of the door, she aggressively wipes her dripping, wet face, deciding that the person knocking can just wait for a minute or two.

“Hello? Hello! Open up!”

Lorina flinches at the very masculine voice before strutting over to the door, unlocking it. “Hey, this is the ladies’ room!”

There’s a blur of red, and Lorina finds herself being shoved back by the sheer force of the opening door. She trips and lands, hard, on the floor, causing her elbows to ache in protest from the fall.

Pristine, white trousers scuffle into the room. And as Lorina raises her head, she sees that they belong to—

“Kyle? Kyle Ash?”

Kyle pauses and looks down. He has just caught sight of Lorina, who is still laying on the ground, looking nothing less of vulnerable with how she is displayed to him. “What’re you doing down there?” he asks dumbly.

Her face is twitching, and she abruptly sits up, annoyed. “What’s it look like I’m doing? You pushed me! Jeez, what’s with you and making my life difficult?”

Kyle openly stares at her for a moment before offering a hand. He is evaluating his chances of a harmless exchange of pleasantries as she accepts his hand, when—

“You work here? Does your employer know of your tendencies to puke everywhere you see fit?”

The redhead feels his lips thinning. “If you’re still angry about yesterday, I told you I’m sorry, didn’t I?”

Lorina, however, makes as though she doesn’t hear him. “So why are you hiding in here, may I ask?”

Resigned, Kyle indicates at the door. “Just don’t let them catch you.”

Making a show of rolling her eyes, she pushes past him and looks through the small opening. All along the corridor, armed soldiers are rushing around, faces alert and wary.

“Apparently someone thinks it’s a genius move to douse Jonah with tea,” chuckles Kyle from behind. “So—our Queen, being his majestic, forgiving self, decides to..uh…I quote ’cut her fingers off and makes her eat it to rue the day she soiled his perfect hair.’”

“And that explains why you’re hiding in the ladies’ room…?”

It took a while for the ginger to consider this. “Do I look like a guy who would want to get involved in anything physical?” he deadpans.

God help me. Lorina sighs, her bangs fanning upward before resettling again over her blank eyes. “I’m getting out,” she announces, no longer bothering to keep civility. She feels like she’s going to lose a brain cell or two talking with this man.

“No,_ wait_!”

It’s too late. Lorina throws open the door, just as the soldiers are moving to the next searching location. Several pairs of eyes land on her as she stands there, expression blank, grey eyes staring aimlessly ahead.

It goes downhill from there though.

There’s a heck of lot yelling, quickly followed by blades pointing at the tip of her hair to her toes. Quite literally.

The girl nervously smiles, feeling a trickle of sweat on her spine. “H-hi.”

It is then, that another gentleman marches forward, the rest of the soldiers moving out of his way in synchronization. His steps are quiet, movement regal and graceful as he comes to stand before her.

“There you’re,” this man’s beautiful features contradict the condescending air that lurks beneath his amber eyes. “After the atrocious act you just pulled on me, you don’t think you can get away from it, do you?”

What’s in the blazes hell?

Before she could even defend herself, she feels the telltale clasp of something around her wrists. Looking down, Lorina isn’t sure what to make of the handcuffs securing her hands together.

“Ms Edith Chattaway, you’re hereby charged with assaulting the Queen of Hearts,” declares a Red officer. “Anything you say may or may not be used against you in a court of law.”

Her gaze turns flat. Of course.

#ikerev #ikemen revolution #fanfiction #mystery suitor #fenrir godspeed #lancelot kingsley #kyle ash #jonah clemence #averymerryunbirthday #text

[sincereiyleah]

Popping Dilemmas  (Shyan)

A/N Something else I was working on should have been uploaded today, but due to the horrendous storm, I was unable to finish it. Worry not though! I found this little fic I wrote up about a month or so ago, I don’t know if I ever posted it on Tumblr, but it’s cute and fluffy. So why not?

Enjoy! 

~

It was late at night, Ryan can tell that much for sure, the twenty-six-year-old just threw on whatever was the closest to him at the point and walked out the door. He only had one place in mind, a store.

He didn't care which store, he was just in a desperate need for one. Urging something he ran out of a few days ago.

The night was quiet, animals of the night scattering around under the moonlight. Ryan's mind was still elsewhere as he walked down the street, hands in his hoodie's pockets, and eyes staring blankly at the ground below him.

He wanted a calm night tonight, he spent his free day finishing up assignments and now he just wanted to relax his mind. The night's air was fresh, cool, against his exposed face and neck, not too heavy.

Before he knew it, his hand was pushing open a glass door and Ryan entered a small corner store. Quickly he made his way down to the aisle which had his cravings stocked. Seeing it on the shelf, he gave himself a small smile as he walked over to it; eyes trained on the item.

He didn't notice the other person coming up with the said item as well, reaching for it the same time Ryan did. The touch of someone else's skin shocked Ryan back to reality along with the taller man. Their hands still placed on the item, it was the last of its kind on the shelf and the only kind Ryan tolerates.

A plain butter and salt popcorn box.

Only now did the blush that threatened to form came to life, covering Ryan's cheeks as the man staring down at him; hands still clasped.

"Looks like we have a popping dilemma," The man said, followed by a soft chuckle.

Ryan let out a nervous laugh of his own because of fuck, this guy was hot. Even through bleary, sleep driven eyes, and horrible corner shop lightening; the man's feature was kindly complimented.

"I don't know about you buddy, but butter and salt popcorn happen to be my favorite." Ryan finds himself saying, weirdly feeling comfortable with the guy. In a good way.

The guy in question smiles, barely showing any teeth as his thumb pressed against the back of Ryan's hand. "It also happens to be the only box of popcorn this place sells." He retaliated.

Ryan chewed his lower lip, his lips forming into a cheeky smile, yeah, he definitely felt comfortable in this guy's presence already. "Well, it also just happens I placed my hand on this delicious box first," Ryan smirked at the man's surprised expression, his eyebrow raising.

"Is that so? Well, it'll be a bummer having to binge watch classic horrors without any popcorn." He inquired, sending a smirk right back to the shorter male.

Ryan only flushed a bit more, seeing as the man's thumb was now rubbing soft circles on the back of his hand. "It would, wouldn't it? Perhaps I and my popcorn can accompany you?" Ryan said with emphasis.

The guy gave a thoughtful hum, "I think me and my classic horrors would approve of such action." and with that, he released the popcorn box, and, to Ryan's dismay, his hand. Ryan was surprised at how he craved for the man's calloused touch again. As if the mystery man read his mind, he offered out his hand, "Shane." he said.

Ryan picked the popcorn box up and shook Shane's hand, "Ryan." he shot back. Taking advantage of the silence to fully appreciate Shane's appearance. He was tall, as he already established, he had black rimmed glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose, and a trimmed down scruff. His hair was messily pushed to the side as his plaid checkered shirt and blue jeans were crinkled.

"Well Ryan, you know I'm inviting you and your popcorn to my house, how do I not know you're a serial killer?" Shane asked, pulling his hand away and dropping it to his side.

"Because my popcorn is at stake, and what about you? Huh? What if you just want to kill me for free popcorn?" Ryan accused, smiling widely. He bet he looks like the only dork right now.

Shane's eyes quickly looked Ryan up and down and then stepped closer to him, "Because," Shane started, his eyes now locking with Ryan's. "you're too cute to kill."

With that, Ryan's blush that had dimmed throughout their talk came back in full force. Ryan's teeth caught his lower lip, trapping it as he let out a soft wheeze. "Wait for me?" He asked, waving the box of popcorn he was going to pay for, Shane nodded.

"Always."

Ryan turned before Shane could see his face grow anymore red, walking up to the cash register; and if he felt a pair of eyes on his backside, well, that was a plus.

-

The walk to Shane's house was a short one, the man not living far from Ryan himself. Once they did get inside, Ryan felt a wave of nervousness overcome him, it's just some popcorn and movies with a cool stranger. That's all.

However, Ryan's anxiety quickly dissipated as Shane smiled at him and guided him to the couch. "I'll make the popcorn, the movies are all in that stand right there," Shane motioned towards a black metal stand, it had four shelves which was packed with different movies and even video games. "Beer?" He then questioned, Ryan was never the one to pass up a free beer.

"I would love to crack open a cold one with you," Ryan found himself answering, blushing at his own comment. Shane only seemed even more amused than before, chuckling as he nodded.

"What a special boy I am," Shane concluded, walking to his kitchen before Ryan even had time to process what he said.

Quickly shaking his head, Ryan looked over the movie titles, picking out a few of his favorites and even ones he didn't even hear of before. By the time Ryan was done, three rounds of popping went off and Shane walked back in with a big bowl of popcorn, like the ones a baker would use for their cake batter, and a pack of beers.

Shane glanced over at the movies Ryan had picked and gave an appreciative hum, "What a taste," he said, Ryan truly tried to stick with the classics. "Cabin Fever, Texas Chainsaw, Halloween, Friday the 13th, Elm Street, Shinning..., Poltergeist? The Exorcist?" Shane looked up at Ryan slightly confused.

"What? They're classics!" Ryan defended.

"And unrealistic," Shane argued back.

"So is a guy killing you in your dreams but Freddy is still praised."

Shane laughed and nodded, "Guess you're right on that one, so... Cabin Fever first?" Ryan nodded, sitting on the couch and grabbing a handful of popcorn. To think, all because he had run out a few days ago on popcorn and craved it led him to meet Shane.

Shane popped into the movie and sat close to Ryan, not as close as Ryan would have wanted, but close enough. Shane passed him a beer, he thanked him as he cracked the lid open and took a sip.

-

Who knew acting scared would get you a handsome guy to hold you?

It was the most comfortable Ryan's been in some time, his feet were propped up and curled back as he laid against Shane's chest, his arm across his torso. Shane's chin rested on top of Ryan's head as his arm was slung around Ryan's waist, holding him close.

Ryan was on his third beer and most of the popcorn was gone at this point. It was probably around two at night and the two were already in their fourth movie. Already seeing his fill of teenage couples dead on screen and cheesy lines, Ryan had got up to put in Poltergeist, bending down and placing the disc in; he turned to see Shane staring. They may have consumed probably too many beers and popcorn to be completely honest, but the way Shane still invited Ryan right next to him, made Ryan feel a little giddily on the inside. Shane, he came to find out, was rather the gentlemen, making sure everything was consensual, not even daring to do something out of Ryan's comfort zone even though they were cuddled close up together.

Shane's eyes flicked up towards Ryan's, "Poltergeist?" he chuckled, Ryan rolled his eyes and sat back curled back around the taller male. "I just don't see the appeal." He concluded, wrapping his arm back around Ryan's waist.

"It's a classic and pretty scary if anything." Ryan hummed as he laid his head on Shane's heart.

"Ghost doesn't exist."

"The set was haunted though!" Ryan told. "The little girl, she died weeks after the movie aired and reports on other weird shit that took place during the film too."

Shane shook his head, "It was a coincidence that she died, very sad, but purely coincidental."

Ryan pouted, but nevertheless, stayed quiet as they watched the movie.

It was near the end where Ryan really started jumping, whimpering softly as he grabbed onto the closest thing there at the moment, (which was Shane's shirt). He talked to the characters as if they were in the room with him and hid his face whenever the suspense would get too suffocating.

Shane held him close through all of it, he even made jokes and whispered soft encouragement when Ryan became too scared. It wasn't just the movie itself that scared Ryan, but the possibility. Maybe not a poltergeist per se, but evil spirits and demons, yeah, that sent shivers.

However, it was over for Ryan when Diane was dragged onto the ceiling, screams of her were too scary to even think about happening it to himself. That's when Shane cupped his cheek, his large hand fitting perfectly against Ryan's jaw, Shane tilted Ryan's head up and smiled down at him. "It's okay, I'm right here, I'll protect you."

Shane's words washed over Ryan, giving him a new feeling of relief and happiness. Ryan smiled, blushing under Shane's palm. The T.V sounded distant, the world became almost nonexistent. Ryan never focused this much on one thing- on one person before. It worried but also excited him. Staring into Shane's eyes as the elder stared back.

And just like back at the store, Shane's thumb made soft circles on his skin. Ryan doesn't know how much time passed, nor did he really care.

Shane's eyes flickered from Ryan's eyes, down to his lips, making the slightest of indications as he leaned in partway; giving Ryan a chance to back away. But Ryan knows more than anything that he's really craving.

Not the popcorn nor the cheesy horror movies.

But a kiss on the lips from Shane.

It was weird, Ryan thought at first, almost felt like a bad hookup that would only last a night; and Ryan didn't want that. But he's sure neither does Shane, so he takes it.

He pushed himself forwards and catches a kiss on Shane's lips.

It was better than Ryan expected, it was slow, sensual, it wasn't rushed at all. It was caring and passionate. And that's what it all was.

Shane was the first to pull back, his hand now resting on Ryan's thigh. There was a slight pant from his breathing, "Ryan?" he asked softly.

"Mhm?"

"How about tomorrow night I take you out for popcorn and a movie?" Shane said with a smile.

Ryan grinned, looking up at him, "And drinks afterward?" he insisted more than asked.

"Yes," Shane chuckles, "and drinks, as well for food, afterward," he promised.

"Then I think I'm free tomorrow night," Ryan concluded.

"Delightful."

~

A/N Fluffy, right? It’s very fast paced but I kinda liked it. 

#shyan #shyan fic #skeptic believer #buzzfeed unsolved #bfu unsolved #fanfiction #fluff

[expatimes]

Martin Luther King, Jr was radical: We must reclaim that legacy | Civil Rights News

I’ll never forget my first organising training course in 2016. We walked through scenarios about arrests, communications, treating pepper spray, and supporting our comrades. And then the instructor, a young Black Chicagoan, slowed his speech, looked at all of us solemnly, and said, “Be prepared for anything. They will drag you. They will knock you unconscious. They will do whatever they can do to keep you from speaking out. They will literally kill you.”

At the time, during a critical period in the Movement for Black Lives, we were actively fighting against a system that had facilitated the killings of young Black Americans like Rekia Boyd and Quintonio LeGrier. As a collective, we were struggling to find justice for young Black people in Chicago who were facing the hyper-surveillance of the state, mass school closures, divestments in communities of colour and white supremacist violence.

As we commemorate Martin Luther King, Jr Day, I can’t help but think of moments like those, when I was concerned for my mortal safety in the name of political protest. Meanwhile, recent events prove that many Americans still do not understand why protests and riots are the domains of marginalised people rather than those in the leading class.

A crowd gathers inside Soldier Field Stadium during a ‘freedom rally’ billed as a ‘massive workshop in non-violence’ in Chicago in 1966. Martin Luther King, Jr, activist James Meredith and Congress of Racial Equality’s Floyd McKissick were among the speakers, followed by a march on City Hall

The world watched on January 6 as hundreds of Trump loyalists descended upon the United States Capitol to stage a “self-coup”. The attempt was not to overthrow a sitting government but to keep President Donald Trump in power despite the election results confirming Joe Biden as the nation’s next president. What is particularly striking about this event has been the ways that white people continue to distance themselves from Trump loyalists and the systems so many of them seek to preserve.

The mob attack on the Capitol elucidated the grave disparities in policing and domestic militarism facing Black and white Americans, seeing as Capitol police failed to adequately protect the building. In that moment, white Americans who had actively worked to elect and support a white supremacist presidential administration were acting out their political fantasies on a grand stage. Moreover, they were showing how white Americans often escape the perils of the criminal justice system even when they are attempting to threaten domestic security and undermine US democracy on a global level.

In this moment, King would likely draw attention to the ways that Black protesters are frequently disproportionately attacked and punished for protest when compared to white Americans, even when those white Americans are engaging in anti-democratic mob violence. It is also in this moment that King would likely have encouraged and espoused a set of radical, Black liberationist politics in support of young Black Americans who have been risking their lives to ensure a freer and more just world for all of us.

King’s radical protest origins

If there is one Black American hero whose radical legacy seems the most fraught and contested, it might be King. The civil rights leader, born on January 15, 1929, in Atlanta, Georgia, was a minister’s son. An accomplished philosopher and thinker, he held a doctorate in theology by the time he was 26 years old. King became the pastor of Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1954, the same year when the landmark desegregation case – Brown v Board of Education – was decided, changing the social and political landscape of the US educational system forever.

King speaks as pastor of the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama on March 20, 1956

It goes without saying that the political moment when King found himself coming of age was one that necessitated revolutionary change. Much like young Black people today, King’s radical ideals were born out of intense social unrest and violence. Over his short life, King’s political ideas and agendas evolved drastically, eventually moving away from integrationist politics to a politics rooted in Black liberation and freedom.

But, much of what we know about King’s life and legacy has been filtered through a revisionist lens meant to make white people more comfortable with their own complicity in systems of white supremacy and anti-Blackness. Thus, many white Americans have reframed King’s movement work and theorising as a way to water down the true aims of the man who became significantly radicalised, pushed by Black activists and organisers around him, before he was shot and killed on April 4, 1968.

King began to receive national attention for his involvement in helping strategise and execute the Montgomery Bus Boycott, which began on December 5, 1955, and ended more than a year later on December 20, 1956. It is estimated that the Montgomery City Bus Lines lost between 30,000 and 40,000 fares each day during the boycott. In retaliation for the success of the Montgomery Boycotts, King’s family home was bombed. It was also the Montgomery Bus Boycott that drew the initial surveillance of the FBI towards King’s efforts to radically change the US. King continued to face imminent threats of violence as he helped orchestrate mass protests across the country. During this time, King worked closely with communities and activists who further shaped his work in support of Black and poor people.

At the same time, King was a young, handsome man with impressive oratory skills and charisma. King’s sharp rise in fame also began to shape the notion that he was the de facto leader of what was becoming known as “the Civil Rights Movement.” This movement, while bolstered by King’s platform, had long been brewing in Black communities across the country. But it was King’s connections to church organisations and his ability to win over sympathetic white Americans with his message of morality that situated him at the head of the movement, at least in their eyes.

King urges calm from the porch of his home, which was bombed in retaliation for the success of the Montgomery Bus Boycott in 1956. With him, left to right, are: Fire Chief RL Lampley; Mayor WA Gayle (in uniform) and City Police Commissioner Clyde Sellers

Radicalising Black Protest

Like the young Black Americans today who have been attacked, intimidated, and harassed by police during the protests of summer 2020, organisers in the 1960s were radicalising Black Protest. During this moment, young Black college students were desegregating lunch counters in silent sit-ins in the South. They were confronting Jim Crow laws and the antagonism of angry white people head-on. In April 1960, at a meeting of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC) – a civil rights organisation of which MLK was president – at Shaw University in Raleigh, North Carolina, activist and SCLC official Ella Baker invited young Black organisers, including the late Representative John Lewis, Marion Barry, and Diane Nash, to share their experiences. Baker had grown concerned that King might be falling out of touch with young Black organisers and their struggles against the state. These young freedom fighters became the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC).

Tensions grew between King and the SNCC as the group espoused more radical politics and direct actions than the SCLC. Under the guidance of Baker, SNCC members risked their lives in “Freedom Rides” working to desegregate interstates. Lewis, among others, was beaten during the ride from Washington, DC, to New Orleans. Student activists were frequently arrested, stranded, and intimidated during the rides. The treatment of SNCC members in the 1960s resembles much of what we witnessed on the streets in 2020.

Plagued by these repeated confrontations with the state, King’s ethical commitments came under further challenge. As early as 1961, in the commentary, “After Desegregation – What?“, King reflected on the limits of desegregation and the potential risks to young Black Americans who would be faced with the ire of white American violence and racism even after the battles for desegregation had been won. King lamented the constricting conditions facing young Black Americans seeking higher education at the time. He was aware that, for young Black people in 1961, integrating interstates, colleges and universities, and other public spaces was almost certainly a confrontation with the vestiges of the crumbling Jim Crow system riddled with social mores and norms meant to persecute Black people.

A crowd of students at Woodlawn High School in Birmingham, Alabama, fly the Confederate flag in opposition to the start of the Birmingham Campaign, a desegregation movement, in May 1963. The movement was organised by the SCLC’s Martin Luther King, Jr and Fred Shuttlesworth, among others

Though King was struggling with the ongoing violence facing young organisers in the SNCC, he still believed that white racism and the reliance on anti-Black tropes in assessing the humanity of Black people would eventually go away. King wrote, “As the color differential fades, so will the racial point of view. Less and less will it be possible to speak with accuracy of Negro newspapers, Negro churches or the Negro vote. More and more economic, social, and professional status will be more decisive in determining a man’s orientation than the color of his skin.”

These sentiments foreshadowed King’s famed “I Have a Dream” speech, delivered on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in August 1963. It was after this grand speech that the FBI shifted to covert surveillance of King and his comrades. Following the speech, then-FBI Director William Sullivan famously wrote of King, “We must mark him now, if we have not done so before, as the most dangerous Negro of the future in this Nation from the standpoint of communism, the Negro and national security.” That year, the FBI met to plan ways to “neutralise King” as a political leader. The increased surveillance of King’s organising and direct actions contributed to tensions between the movement and the federal government.

The preoccupation with King’s personal dealings and companionships culminated in an “intensive investigation” meant to cast aspersions on King’s character. These wiretaps remained active until April 1965 at King’s home and June 1966 at the SCLC offices. The unlawful and baseless wiretapping of King’s comrades and family is just one of the ways the US government actively worked to discredit the growing interracial movement of supporters who remained committed to ending segregation. These actions also contributed to King’s growing distrust of the government and his ever-radicalising ideas on justice and liberation.

Water cannon is used on young Black Americans during a protest against segregation organised by King and Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth, in Birmingham, Alabama in May 1963

The aggression of white supremacists and the growing violence of the Ku Klux Klan (KKK) around the country increased in response to the growing coalitions of Black activists and organisers securing wins for Black Americans. In 1963, King was arrested and held in a jail in Birmingham for protesting segregation. There, he penned the “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” in response to white clergymen who had criticised his ongoing confrontations with the state. His blistering response was one of the many redactives he crafted to white liberals as his political career grew more radical.

In the letter, King wrote, “I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to ‘order’ than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice.” He went on to explain that white moderates were those who “set the timetable for another man’s freedom.”

Arrested after integration attempts in Saint Augustine restaurants, Martin Luther King sits with Reverend Ralph Abernathy in the St John’s County Jail in Saint Augustine, Florida in 1964

For King, the lack of consistent support from white clergy and other advocates of the movement was just as harmful as the outright rebuke of KKK members.

Then, in September 1963, four little girls were killed by white supremacist bombers at the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama. The church had been a meeting place for King and local organisers. The bombings, set to strike fear into Black Americans and warn them away from white neighbourhoods, earned the city the nickname “Bombingham”. It was indicative of the ongoing violence and racial pogroms erupting nationwide.

This tragic event was devastating for King. Like many young Black Americans today, witnessing this macabre violence against Black people triggered in him a deeper commitment to challenging the status quo.

King looks through the window of a police car moments after he was arrested at the Birmingham Airport in 1967; King and three others received five-day jail terms for violating a court order by staging a demonstration in Birmingham on Easter Sunday in 1963. They appealed the case to the US Supreme Court but lost. King sent word from his jail cell that he was confined to bed with a virus infection and under the care of a doctor

Bloody Sunday, MLK and Black Protest

On March 7, 1965, the day now known as “Bloody Sunday”, nearly 600 peaceful protesters set out on a 54-mile journey from Selma to Montgomery only to be met on the Edmund Pettus Bridge by police officers with billy clubs, whips and tear gas. John Lewis, who was only 25 years old at the time, was among those brutally beaten on the bridge that day, his skull cracked by state troopers using a billy club. The macabre violence was televised to millions of Americans during primetime. For many white Americans who had been largely insulated from the racial violence facing Black Americans in the US, this broadcast was their first direct exposure to the Civil Rights Movement.

Following this violence, from March 21 to March 25, 1965, King led the Freedom Marches from Selma to Montgomery. King’s targeted direct action campaigns in Selma put pressure on then-President Lyndon B Johnson to push for the Voting Rights Act of 1965, sweeping legislation meant to end the era of literacy tests, poll taxes, and other barriers Black Americans faced to voting in the US.

In a major blow to King’s legacy and work, the US Supreme Court invalidated key parts of the Voting Rights Act in 2013.

Towards the end of his life, King turned his focus to the Poor People’s Campaign, an effort to unify Americans behind issues like equitable pay, unemployment insurance and a fair minimum wage. He never got to see the culminating events of the Campaign as he was killed before the project was completed.

King was a critical force in bringing the anti-Black, racist struggles facing Black Americans to the communities, living rooms, and dinner tables of white Americans who had long had the privilege of overlooking and denying its existence. He did this while sacrificing his own safety and the safety of his family.

King is struck on the head by a rock thrown by a group of white men; he regained his feet and led a group of marchers demonstrating against housing discrimination through an all-white district in Chicago on August 5, 1966. Hundreds of jeering people lined the march route, showering the marchers with stones, bottles and firecrackers

While King believed that the fundamental tactics of mass mobilisation and movement making for racial progress should focus on a non-violent course of action, he also challenged activists and organisers to shift their focus to systemic and institutional barriers to progress for Black Americans. In 1968, just before he was killed, King said, “A riot is the language of the unheard.” What we know of his legacy is that, while he did not support violent protest tactics, he believed that the only way to prevent rioting was to address the underlying concerns of those in the minority. King was clear that white people would not lead the revolution. Rather, it was always the voices of young, Black, and poor people that were most heard during times of great anguish and upheaval.

Suffice it to say, King was not confident that powerful white people would work toward justice for all. In a speech about his Poor People’s campaign, he said, “I don’t have any faith in the whites in power responding in the right way … they’ll treat us like they did our Japanese brothers and sisters in World War II. They’ll throw us into concentration camps. The Wallaces and the Birchites will take over. The sick people and the fascists will be strengthened. They’ll cordon off the ghetto and issue passes for us to get in and out.” Exasperated by the continued violence and economic disparity facing Black people, King had become disillusioned with the capacity for white leadership to be responsive to the political concerns of Black Americans. Most importantly, he had come to the realisation that white Americans would frequently choose their own safety, liberty, and economic stability over the collective good of others.

Towards the end of his life, King’s ideas and work had made him increasingly unpopular. In 1966, 63 percent of Americans had an unfavourable view of King, up from 37 percent in 1963, according to Gallup. The precipitous change in public opinion about King in the 60s illustrates how his public politics and commitments became less palatable for white Americans not fully committed to the liberation of poor and Black people. Yet, even as the public slowly turned away from King and his work, he continued to promote notions of class equality and Black humanity despite the risks to his own life and the lives of his family and comrades.

Members of a right-wing organisation picket outside Cobo Hall in Detroit, Michigan in 1965, demonstrating against King who addressed a dinner inside

We must acknowledge King’s radical legacy

It is the same fight we continue today. Young Black Americans have been in the streets fighting for their lives and for the safety of their communities. The protests after Breonna Taylor and George Floyd were killed by police have been described as the largest global mass protests in history. All of this in the midst of a global pandemic, where Black Americans are at greater risk of dying due to COVID-19 than any other group.

In general, Black Americans are at greater exposure for environmental risks that have only worsened under the Trump administration. The global crisis has only highlighted the grave disparities in health and safety across racial groups. Even before the pandemic, Black women were at the highest risk of death due to childbirth complications. Black children face higher rates of death from complications with asthma. Meanwhile, some Trump supporters have manifested their denial of his recent loss by appropriating protest and engaging in acts of violence as a form of national pacification.

We must acknowledge King’s radical legacy in light of recent events. Not only that, we must consider how his evolving politics provide insight into the ways that young Black Americans today continue to be politicised and radicalised by the anti-Black world around them.

King’s legacy teaches us that political protest, and his fight for economic justice for all people, is a tool to challenge the status quo rather than assimilate into it. His work shows that, as the conditions of state-sanctioned persecution and inequality change, we too must allow ourselves to be changed. And, when the world calls us to respond to oppression and repression, we must always concern ourselves with those least protected, least defended, and most vulnerable to the violence of the state.

We should be suspicious of the watered-down, colourblind notions of King’s politics that too often dominate mainstream narratives. And, as white Americans continue to commodify and appropriate King’s legacy for performative acts like the “MLK Day of Service” and other public displays, we must remember that this is the same MLK the FBI tried to convince to kill himself – only to tweet in his support decades later.

King arrives at the FBI on December 1, 1964, to speak with director J Edgar Hoover, who had called King ‘the most notorious liar in the country’ at a recent news conference

If King were here today, he would likely express both disappointment and disgust for Trump loyalists whose anti-democratic commitments leave this nation in a consistent state of uncertainty and turbulence. And, unlike the violent mob last Wednesday, King would be speaking as a Black American who has been physically threatened, surveilled, and harassed by state-sanctioned eyes. Through his life and legacy, it is clear that Black Protest has always been criminalised, and deemed riotous. This is true even though many white Americans consistently support the violent, anti-Black status quo.

Like so many of us who are committed to racial justice and accountability to those least among us, King’s legacy is a balm in a moment such as this. King would have been fighting with and alongside young Black Americans following the deaths of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and so many others. And, he would have seen the January 6 attempted coup as a toothless white supremacist attempt to grasp at the reigns of power in the US despite the immense damage this administration has already done.

#humanrights Read full article: https://expatimes.com/?p=16993&feed_id=29475 #civilrights #features #humanrights #raceissues #racism #unitedstates #uscanada

#CivilRights #Features #HumanRights #RaceIssues #Racism #UnitedStates #USCanada

[sherlockxreader]

Holiday Fun (AllxReader)

Title: Holiday Fun Pairings: mostly AllxReader (platonic!) Warnings: drunk!Moriarty, drunk!Reader Summary: You host a Christmas party at John’s house that doesn’t go as expected. At all. Author: Nyla (@i-had-a-halo-once)

____

221b Baker Street was unusually quiet.

Normally, the sounds of Sherlock’s boredom or Mrs. Hudson’s calls about not being a housekeeper rang out through the floors of the apartment building. Sometimes, noise was even caused by an excited Y/N.

But not now. Now, everything was completely quiet.

John’s house wasn’t, however, and that was mainly because all of 221b’s excitement had gone over to John’s for Christmas Eve.

Excitement that went by the name of a currently glitter-covered Y/N.

It had been a total accident, of course, but you were delighted. You had gotten several things of glitter to decorate presents and sprinkle around a little just for fun, but you had accidentally tripped and fallen, dusting yourself with gold and silver glitter.

While John was more than slightly dismayed at the amount of glitter dropped, you had looked up as Sherlock and Mycroft entered, a wide grin spreading across your face. You stood, and then twirled with a laugh. “My, Sher! Look! I’m an angel!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes at you, though he was secretly amused at your antics. “Y/N, stop being so childish.”

“Aww, you’re just jealous you’re not as pretty,” you teased, grinning at him as Sherlock coughed suddenly to hide his laughter.

Mycroft’s sharp glare switched to Sherlock instantly. “Brother dear, you’re being quite immature.”

Sherlock only laughed more, before straightening and turning back to both of you. “She does have a point, My.” He smirked at his brother’s nickname, which he knew Mycroft hated.

“Do not call me that,” Mycroft hissed at him.

“Boys! What would your mother say?” You quickly interrupted. “Both of you are some of the most powerful men in London, or even all of England, and you’re both acting silly. It’s Christmas! Lighten up!” With that said, you practically waltzed right between them with a laugh, going to find John to help with the Christmas baking.

John was cooking for the party, while Molly watched Rosalind. You had convinced him to hold a Christmas party at his house, which he had finally reluctantly agreed to, and you had sent out invitations, eagerly, to everyone. When you had said everyone, all three men had eyed you suspiciously, nervous of the mischievous smirk growing on your lips. They hadn’t questioned you, however, knowing you would do it whether they liked it or not, so they all figured it was better not to know for the time being.

The doorbell rang, and you called out, “I’ll get it!” You raced to the door, throwing it open. “Lestrade!”

He smiled at you, holding quite a few presents. “Y/N!”

“Come in!” You offered cheerfully, stepping aside. He nodded with a smile, coming in. You took the presents from him, and directed him towards refreshments in the kitchen while you placed the presents underneath the tree.

Sherlock and Mycroft were still apparently arguing, so you pushed between them. “I swear to God, if both of you keep this up, I will cover both of you in glitter that you won’t be able to get off for days,” you threatened, effectively shutting them up. The scary thing was that they both knew you would do it in a heartbeat.

“Good! Now that that’s settled, we have more important stuff to do.” You grabbed their hands and dragged them, quite unwillingly, to the kitchen. “Both of you need to help John. I’m going to go check on Rosie and Molly.”

Ignoring their vehement protests, you strolled out of the room happily, only to be distracted by another guest at the door. With a wicked grin, you raced to open it, and sure enough, the man you expected stood there.

“Jim! Glad you could make it!” You greeted the archenemy of Sherlock as you let him in. He also carried presents, one which was suspiciously shaped like a rum bottle.

“Of course I came,” he practically purred in his Irish accent, shooting you a smirk. You returned it. He eyed your glitter-covered form.

“Don’t get into too much trouble, Jim,” you chided.

“Me? Trouble?” He asked innocently, which you rolled your eyes.

“Just don’t burn down John’s house or spark a full scale war with Mycroft or anything,” you responded. “Oh! By the way!” You added, grinning wickedly before throwing a handful of glitter at him, much to his surprise. “Surprise!”

“What the— Y/N!” He yelped. You started laughing, and hurried away before he could retaliate.

This was going to be amazing.

___

“Was that eggnog spiked?”

John leaned close to Sherlock as he whispered, eyeing both you and Jim. Originally, everyone had been annoyed that you had invited Moriarty, but once he had sworn on his own life (which no one believed, but allowed) that he wouldn’t cause trouble, or at least kill anyone.

Which still left John wondering why you were giggling, collapsed on the couch with Jim, clearly drunk.

“I have no doubt,” the consulting detective replied, distaste clear in his voice.

“Jiiiim!” You struggled to stand, stumbling as you did so, which only made him giggle more.

“Yesss?” He slurred, grinning.

“I wanna open presentssss,” you managed, stumbling over to the tree. As you walked, glitter floated down from your body, making John sigh.

“Uhmmm…. I got you this really weird pr’snt,” he admitted, still quite giggly.

“Well, I want it thennn.”

“‘Kay.” He hiccuped, then stood to follow you, stumbling slightly. “Here… Here it is…” He handed you a neatly-wrapped gift, which you grinned at.

“I.. I think you were supposed to be my secret Santa,” you mumbled.

“Shhhh, we can’t let the others know that,” he replied in the same tone.

Sherlock and Mycroft watched on with mild interest, though found the whole thing amusing, while John, Molly and Lestrade were laughing.

“Uh… You know I’m me, right?” You managed, waving the gift in front of him — which was a hot pink gun complete with silver sparkles.

John hurried forward, laughter dying. “I’ll handle that, Y/N.”

You waved it in the air before he took it from you. “Jiiiiiim, I’m tiiiired.”

“C’mere.” He had fallen onto the couch again, and you went back over to sit down beside him, snuggling him. He pulled you close, and you stretched yourself out so you were laid on top of him, You snuggled into him with a murmur, before quickly falling asleep. He also quickly fell asleep.

Sherlock and John just chuckled at that.

“That eggnog was definitely spiked.”

___

In the morning, your loud swearing filled John’s house when you woke with a major headache.

It only doubled when you saw who you had been using as your pillow.

John and Sherlock thought it was hilarious and brought it up one day, but they were quickly silenced by your look. They weren’t normal fearful men, but the gleam in your eyes was enough to make them swear to stay out of your way in the coming days.

You were going to get revenge.

[easyfoodnetwork]

The Depressing and Unsurprising Obstacle for Women in Wine

olgakimphoto/Shutterstock

From the Editor: Everything you missed in food news last week

This post originally appeared on October 31, 2020 in Amanda Kludt’s newsletter “From the Editor,” a roundup of the most vital news and stories in the food world each week. Read the archives and subscribe now.

Oftentimes, when we talk about why there aren’t more members of marginalized groups in positions of power, we point to a surfeit of societal factors. They are saddled with more domestic responsibilities due to gender norms or debt due to redlining and the theft of generational wealth. They are subject to unconscious (or explicit) bias. They don’t have access to the right circles to raise capital or have the right shorthand. There are myriad subtle and powerful ways a discriminatory society can grind away at gains toward equality.

What’s been so compelling about stories coming out of the #metoo movement and the ongoing reckoning over racism in our country and in the restaurant industry in particular is how they’ve shone a light on those generalized forces at play but also on absolutely bonkers undeniable abuse people confront on a regular basis.

This week’s example comes from Julia Moskin’s investigation into the highest echelons of the wine world, where women were subject to harassment, assault, bullying, and debasement to get coveted training and certification. This isn’t an issue of judges going easier on men than women because they identify with or like them. It’s an issue of retaliating against women who wouldn’t sleep with them.

Last week’s example was Chris Crowley’s look at the culture at Mission Chinese, where a Black dishwasher was burned with hot oil and regularly called ‘boy.’

It’s beyond cliche but I can’t help but think of that famous Sarah Moore Grimké quote (often attributed to the late, great RBG): “I ask no favors for my sex ... All I ask of our brethren is that they will take their feet from off our necks.” I know of so many panels and think pieces about why there weren’t more female Master Sommeliers and the answer was blindingly clear and depressingly obvious.

News

Sabine [Official Photo]

Familiar toasts at Sabine in Seattle

— This week, Chicago and its surrounding suburbs paused indoor dining (much to the chagrin of the city’s mayor); Newark added an 8 p.m. curfew to indoor dining, San Francisco paused plans to raise capacity limits, and Michigan is demanding restaurant and bars collect information from customers for contact tracing. And in Europe, France, Germany, Belgium, and others limited bar and restaurant operations.

— Chef and restaurateur Andy Ricker officially pulled the plug on his Pok Pok restaurant group, partially because of the pandemic and partially because he didn’t like how hard it had gotten over the last half decade, saying his work was “more and more about logistics and putting out fires, less and less about hospitality and and vision.”

— Openings: Maison Nico, an epicerie with gorgeous pastries and terrines, in San Francisco; Locust, a surprisingly named dumpling and kakigori destination from big name local chef Trevor Moran, in Nashville; Hiyakawa, a stylish omakase spot from a Morimoto alum, in Miami; Kol, an eagerly anticipated debut from Noma Mexico’s Santiago Lastra, in London; and El Oso, a Mexican pop-up looking for a permanent spot, in Chicago.

— Also opening is Sabine, which looks like a good option for Seattleites who want to try the famous ricotta and jam brioche toast, rugbrod toast, crispy rice salad, and sorrel pesto rice bowl of LA’s Sqirl without getting on a plane.

— Minneapolis’ alt-weekly paper City Pages, home to a variety of talented food writers and critics over the years, ceased publication after 41 years in business.

— How a potential banning of WeChat in the U.S. could impact immigrant-run businesses in New York that rely on the platform as a ”fan-filled Facebook page, a commission-free Seamless, a long-distance Groupon, and a three-person Zendesk rolled into one.”

Features and More

Gary He/Eater

Thai Diner in New York

— The surprisingly compelling history (and extinction in some regions and democratization in others) of finger bowls.

— What the closing of Dialogue and other high-end spots means for the future of fine dining in Los Angeles.

— How to make your home as cool-looking as Portland’s Gado Gado.

— Review: I loved New York’s Thai Diner when it opened, and I love its current iteration. Ryan Sutton perfectly captures how it’s adapted to this moment.

— A sweet and sad essay about how foraging for food during the pandemic reminds one home cook of foraging for food as a homeless teen.

— Meghan McCarron embeds with the wonderful charity No Us Without You, which feeds 1,300 undocumented restaurant workers and their families around LA.

— Let’s all be a little less snobby about frozen food. It’s fine.

— The baker who is making a pie for each American state, a project that is way more complicated than you might imagine.

Off Eater

Powerful first-person accounts of what it’s been like to be unemployed through the pandemic. [NYT]

Mourning the restaurants that we never made it to. [Grub Street]

AOC now, AOC forever. [VF]

What does a home and homeownership mean and look like now that we spend so much damn time in them? [Vox.com]

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/3kTVxNM https://ift.tt/34PufT9

olgakimphoto/Shutterstock

From the Editor: Everything you missed in food news last week

This post originally appeared on October 31, 2020 in Amanda Kludt’s newsletter “From the Editor,” a roundup of the most vital news and stories in the food world each week. Read the archives and subscribe now.

Oftentimes, when we talk about why there aren’t more members of marginalized groups in positions of power, we point to a surfeit of societal factors. They are saddled with more domestic responsibilities due to gender norms or debt due to redlining and the theft of generational wealth. They are subject to unconscious (or explicit) bias. They don’t have access to the right circles to raise capital or have the right shorthand. There are myriad subtle and powerful ways a discriminatory society can grind away at gains toward equality.

What’s been so compelling about stories coming out of the #metoo movement and the ongoing reckoning over racism in our country and in the restaurant industry in particular is how they’ve shone a light on those generalized forces at play but also on absolutely bonkers undeniable abuse people confront on a regular basis.

This week’s example comes from Julia Moskin’s investigation into the highest echelons of the wine world, where women were subject to harassment, assault, bullying, and debasement to get coveted training and certification. This isn’t an issue of judges going easier on men than women because they identify with or like them. It’s an issue of retaliating against women who wouldn’t sleep with them.

Last week’s example was Chris Crowley’s look at the culture at Mission Chinese, where a Black dishwasher was burned with hot oil and regularly called ‘boy.’

It’s beyond cliche but I can’t help but think of that famous Sarah Moore Grimké quote (often attributed to the late, great RBG): “I ask no favors for my sex ... All I ask of our brethren is that they will take their feet from off our necks.” I know of so many panels and think pieces about why there weren’t more female Master Sommeliers and the answer was blindingly clear and depressingly obvious.

News

Sabine [Official Photo]

Familiar toasts at Sabine in Seattle

— This week, Chicago and its surrounding suburbs paused indoor dining (much to the chagrin of the city’s mayor); Newark added an 8 p.m. curfew to indoor dining, San Francisco paused plans to raise capacity limits, and Michigan is demanding restaurant and bars collect information from customers for contact tracing. And in Europe, France, Germany, Belgium, and others limited bar and restaurant operations.

— Chef and restaurateur Andy Ricker officially pulled the plug on his Pok Pok restaurant group, partially because of the pandemic and partially because he didn’t like how hard it had gotten over the last half decade, saying his work was “more and more about logistics and putting out fires, less and less about hospitality and and vision.”

— Openings: Maison Nico, an epicerie with gorgeous pastries and terrines, in San Francisco; Locust, a surprisingly named dumpling and kakigori destination from big name local chef Trevor Moran, in Nashville; Hiyakawa, a stylish omakase spot from a Morimoto alum, in Miami; Kol, an eagerly anticipated debut from Noma Mexico’s Santiago Lastra, in London; and El Oso, a Mexican pop-up looking for a permanent spot, in Chicago.

— Also opening is Sabine, which looks like a good option for Seattleites who want to try the famous ricotta and jam brioche toast, rugbrod toast, crispy rice salad, and sorrel pesto rice bowl of LA’s Sqirl without getting on a plane.

— Minneapolis’ alt-weekly paper City Pages, home to a variety of talented food writers and critics over the years, ceased publication after 41 years in business.

— How a potential banning of WeChat in the U.S. could impact immigrant-run businesses in New York that rely on the platform as a ”fan-filled Facebook page, a commission-free Seamless, a long-distance Groupon, and a three-person Zendesk rolled into one.”

Features and More

Gary He/Eater

Thai Diner in New York

— The surprisingly compelling history (and extinction in some regions and democratization in others) of finger bowls.

— What the closing of Dialogue and other high-end spots means for the future of fine dining in Los Angeles.

— How to make your home as cool-looking as Portland’s Gado Gado.

— Review: I loved New York’s Thai Diner when it opened, and I love its current iteration. Ryan Sutton perfectly captures how it’s adapted to this moment.

— A sweet and sad essay about how foraging for food during the pandemic reminds one home cook of foraging for food as a homeless teen.

— Meghan McCarron embeds with the wonderful charity No Us Without You, which feeds 1,300 undocumented restaurant workers and their families around LA.

— Let’s all be a little less snobby about frozen food. It’s fine.

— The baker who is making a pie for each American state, a project that is way more complicated than you might imagine.

Off Eater

Powerful first-person accounts of what it’s been like to be unemployed through the pandemic. [NYT]

Mourning the restaurants that we never made it to. [Grub Street]

AOC now, AOC forever. [VF]

What does a home and homeownership mean and look like now that we spend so much damn time in them? [Vox.com]

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/3kTVxNM via Blogger https://ift.tt/3kRJroe

#Blogger #cooking #Eater #food #recipes

[miragerules]

Here is a really well written article about both Daenerys good and bad qualities.  The authors of the article make a lot of great points about Daenerys as well as Jon.

Warning: Spoilers ahead for "Game of Thrones."

Daenerys Targaryen is, in many ways, one of the most appealing characters in HBO's "Game of Thrones." She's powerful and determined, and she inspires people to follow her again and again.

Now she's close to forming an alliance with Jon Snow, the other main hero of our tale. Together, they'll be a dragon-riding, direwolf-wielding duo who will slaughter the White Walkers and save Westeros. They could both perhaps be "The Prince That Was Promised," Azor Ahai reborn.

But would a writer like George R.R. Martin really let his series end so simply?

Some fans don't think so and point to a few troubling characteristics of Daenerys both on the show and in the books that could lead to her eventual turn toward a darker path.

Let's explore just why some people think Daenerys could become a villain.

Daenerys is a vengeance-seeker.

Throughout the series, Daenerys is convinced of her own moral compass. If she ever witnesses something she views as wrong — such as rape or slavery — she immediately attempts to put a stop to it and punish the wrongdoer.

This a noble trait, but seeing the world in black and white and believing she is the sole bringer of justice is one of Daenerys' downfalls.

We saw this early in the series when she saved a healer and maegi named Mirri Maz Duur, one of the Lhazareen women raped by the Dothraki, who had conquered their village. To Daenerys, saving Duur was an honorable thing to do, and she enlisted Duur to help heal Khal Drogo after he was injured.

Instead, Duur made Drogo's condition worse and killed Daenerys' son, Rhaego, when he was still in the womb using blood magic.

Daenerys doesn't understand why the woman turned on her when Daenerys had saved her. But Duur viewed it quite differently:

"Saved me? Three of those riders had already raped me before you saved me, girl. I saw my god's house burn, there where I had healed men and women beyond counting. In the streets I saw piles of heads: the head of the baker who makes my bread, the head a young boy that I had cured of fever just three moons past. So tell me again: Exactly what it was that you saved?"

Duur herself was seeking vengeance for the death of her people. In retaliation, Daenerys murdered Duur in Khal Drogo's funeral pyre and emerged with her three dragons.

Was the scene epic? Of course. But this wouldn't be the last time Daenerys murdered or harmed people who disagreed with her perception of what is right and wrong.

Another moment of Daenerys' vengeance gone awry is when the Great Masters crucify 163 slave children as mile markers on her way to Meereen as a way to intimidate her. When she sacks the city, Daenerys crucifies 163 Great Masters as a punishment.

In "A Storm of Swords," however, Daenerys begins to regret her actions, despite her initial sense of righteousness:

"She had them nailed to wooden posts around the plaza, each man pointing at the next. The anger was fierce and hot inside her when she gave the command; it made her feel like an avenging dragon. But later, when she passed the men dying on the posts, when she heard their moans and smelled their bowels and blood …

"It was just. It was. I did it for the children."

Daenerys, though she suppresses the thought, realizes some of the masters may not have been guilty of the death of these children. She tries to convince herself that she was right to take their lives.

And in season six, episode five, show watchers saw Daenerys murder the powerful khals in their straw hut. These weren't nice men — they spent a significant chunk of time insulting Daenerys and talking about how they intended to rape and kill her — but watching her burn them alive was still an unnerving moment for some viewers, especially because it looked like she took pleasure in watching them die.

Daenerys' rationalizations for all these events should give her fans pause. Murdering evil people may seem like the right thing to do, but what would happen if Daenerys' moral compass were ever skewed?

It wouldn't be the first time she burned people who disagreed with her, after all.

Dragons as nuclear weapons.

In "A Dance With Dragons," Daenerys compares her dragons to monsters:

"Mother of dragons, Daenerys thought. Mother of monsters. What have I unleashed upon the world? A queen I am, but my throne is made of burned bones, and it rests on quicksand. Without dragons, how could she hope to hold Meereen, much less win back Westeros? I am the blood of the dragon, she thought. If they are monsters, so am I."

This wild and changeable nature of dragons is directly tied to Daenerys. When she equates herself to a dragon, she means it: She can be just as destructive and changeable as her dragon children.

What's more, Martin has talked about ties between the dragons and nuclear weapons. Both are powerful to have but can easily lead to utter destruction.

"Dragons are the nuclear deterrent, and only Dany has them, which in some ways makes her the most powerful person in the world," Martin told Vulture in a 2014 interview. "But is that sufficient? These are the kind of issues I'm trying to explore. The United States right now has the ability to destroy the world with our nuclear arsenal, but that doesn't mean we can achieve specific geopolitical goals. Power is more subtle than that. You can have the power to destroy, but it doesn't give you the power to reform, or improve, or build."

We saw the full force of this when Daenerys attacked the Lannister army with Drogon. Director Matt Shakman chose to show the battle from Jaime and Bronn's perspective to bring the horrors of dragonfire into sharp relief.

"I wanted to tell the story of what it was like ... when war changes forever and a truly horrific weapon like napalm or an atom bomb is suddenly unleashed and what that does to the men on the ground," Shakman told Insider.

Daenerys is sitting with her finger on a red button that could take out all of Westeros. She may not want to destroy the kingdom, especially before she ever has the chance to rule there. But by virtue of wanting to conquer Westeros, she could be bringing more death and destruction into a country still ravaged by war.

There's a chance Daenerys could be viewed as a villain instead of the returning hero of House Targaryen.

Daenerys and the Mad King.

While Daenerys has remained fairly sane so far, the Targaryen dynasty has a history of mental illness, mainly because of intermarriage. Daenerys' father, King Aerys II, was called the Mad King because he became paranoid and started killing people and hiding wildfire around King's Landing.

Daenerys starts to worry about this possible "taint" in her blood, as do many other characters throughout the series. But it's not so much that Daenerys could go crazy — though that's certainly a possibility — as that she could follow in her father's footsteps by punishing those who disagree with her or whom she views as her enemies.

Tyrion warned her against this tactic at the end of season six, and the two reached a compromise where Daenerys instead burned just one of the slaver's ships and had Grey Worm execute two of the three slave masters.

Once she arrived in Westeros, Tyrion once again counseled Daenerys against immediately using the dragons to burn King's Landing or other cities, telling her she didn't want to be the "queen of the ashes."

But their alternate plans failed because of Tyrion's miscalculations of what Jaime and Cersei would do, and Daenerys got tired of sitting around and doing nothing. She rode Drogon into battle against the Lannister army and laid waste to their soldiers and loot. She didn't choose a select few leaders to punish — she went for everything in sight.

Granted, it was better than her flying to the Red Keep and attacking civilians, but it was still hard to 100% root for her in this moment.

Daenerys also had a tense conversation with Varys earlier in the seventh season. She made him promise to be straightforward with her about her potential failings as a leader, but she then vowed to burn him alive if he ever betrayed her.

If Daenerys goes too far in the "fire and blood" direction, she could end up repeating her father's mistakes — something that would end up costing her the throne, just like it ended up costing King Aerys both his kingdom and his life.

Jon Snow is the true hero.

A penchant for vengeance, a crazy father, and dragons do not together make Daenerys a villain. But let's compare Daenerys with another heroic character in the "Song of Ice and Fire" series: Jon Snow.

In the books and show, Jon is similar to Ned Stark. He's honorable, justice-minded, and takes no pleasure in killing. When he's forced to take a life, Jon makes sure he's the one to swing the sword, and he views it as a burden, not a pleasure.

For example, when he punished the brothers of the Night's Watch who stabbed him in season six, Jon took no joy in it. He listened to every man's last words before cutting the rope and watching them die. He did not look pleased by their deaths — unlike Daenerys, who smiled right before she watched the khals burn.

Jon also never asks for the responsibility heaped on his shoulders time and time again. Jon is forced to become the lord commander after Samwell Tarly submitted his name. He doesn't want to be the one to take care of the Wildlings, but he feels morally obligated to help them and therefore becomes their savior. He doesn't want to be the one to punish his brothers, even though they betrayed and murdered him, and yet he knows the responsibility falls to him.

And now, he's king in the north after rallying the Northern houses around him. But he didn't even want to do that — not until Sansa Stark convinced him it was the right thing to do.

Jon follows the traditional "reluctant hero" journey in many ways. He questions himself, he sometimes falls, and he picks himself back up.

It's not unlike what Dumbledore tells Harry in the "Harry Potter" film series: "It is a curious thing, Harry, but perhaps those who are best suited to power are those who have never sought it. Those who, like you, have leadership thrust upon them, and take up the mantle because they must, and find to their own surprise that they wear it well."

Jon never asks to be a leader; he's just the best man for the job. It's something Daenerys — with her Targaryen dynasty and ambitions — would never understand. When Jon and Daenerys meet for the first time, Daenerys tells him that all people enjoy what they're good at.

"I don't," Jon said.

He was likely referring to leading and killing, the two things he's been forced into since leaving Winterfell as a young man. Jon never sought out a royal title, but he's good at owning it. That factor might make him the one person best suited for the job.

What does this mean for the series?

There's also substantial evidence throughout the series that Daenerys will be a good ruler. She's intelligent, she tries to listen to her advisers, and she genuinely wants the people she rules to be happy. People like Missandei and Grey Worm follow Daenerys because they believe in her ability to change lives for the better.

And even with her possible flaws, Daenerys would ultimately be a much better ruler than Cersei or Joffrey Lannister, or even King Robert.

Still, there could be a complicated friction as Daenerys tries to claim the Iron Throne. Instead of being the hero she assumes she will be, Daenerys is likely to face opposition and bring destruction and death to the kingdom.

On the other hand, she possesses weapons that, while volatile, could be the key to defeating the White Walkers (at least on the show). We know that Valyrian steel and dragonglass — two things believed to be made with dragon fire — can kill the White Walkers, so it stands to reason that actua fire from actual dragons would do the trick, too.

So while she may not be greeted in Westeros as a hero, she and her dragons could fast become their only hope. Plus, a Jon and Daenerys romance might be brewing — even though their shared bloodline grosses some fans out. Perhaps his "ice" will temper her "fire," if you catch our drift.

In the end, only Martin knows what will happen, but Daenerys fans should buckle up. It could be a bumpy ride on her way to the Iron Throne.

#Game of Thrones #Game of Thrones Season 7 #Game of Thrones Spoilers #Game of Thrones Season 7 Spoilers #Daenerys #Daenarys Targaryen #Jon Snow #Jon X Daenerys #Jonerys #Jon x Dany #Anti Daenerys #Anti-Daenerys

[shadydreamerdonut]

@casara123 Here you go, love. I’ll fix up any mistakes when I get home and maybe even write the next chapter. But I have to go to class lol

“Because what's worse than knowing you want something? Besides knowing you can never have it.”

Nellie skipped cheerfully away from the torsional parlor about a block away from her pie shop. Crimson pigtails jubilantly bouncing. Sweeney had good business, his status ever growing. But even with Senior Pirelli out of the picture, there were still many other reputable parlors around. Parlors that could easily attract the business of a certain judge.

To assuage the worry of her beloved barber, she’d thought up a scheme with keen mind, a way to diminish their competition. The petite baker had to think upon this for a short while, not wanting to commit any more head-turning crimes than they were already. A Cheshire grin graced her full lips as she realized she had the ultimate weapon to invade their establishment, her charm and femininity.

Upon meeting a given barber, she would size them up then decide which would be the best form of attack. Whether it be scandalizing possible customers with an apparent affair – making them think he entertained street walkers. Perhaps a less spectacle of dipping her hand in their wallet without detection. Leaving with a wink, sure to be invited back soon.

Sweeney originally was repulsed by this scheme. How positively demoralizing. He also didn’t like the idea of her around other men, especially not in a conspicuous atmosphere. He would never voice this as it would make him sound jealous. Or concerned for her safety. No, he didn’t. It would just be an inconvenience if anything were to happen to her, derailing his quest for revenge.

She was a vital instrument to his operation. Rather irreplaceable. Still, the idea of assailing the judge being ruined for a matter of semantics made him nauseous. So, if one more potential complication could be eliminated, he would for now, with reluctance allow her to continue.

Besides, she probably was enjoying the attention, he thought – rolling his eyes.  He could hear her now, dancing up the creaking steps. The chime of the bell signaled that she had invaded his premise. He didn’t tear his gaze away from the window, not even wanting to glance at the small woman’s doe eyes. “Another success” She chimed gleefully. “Got a whole three pounds off that poor bloke.” He frowned deeply, his forehead creasing. Not that she could see.

“What about that man, up on the corner of Leadenhall?”

“A small ‘thank you’ would be nice. Eliminating competition, washing your shirts and look, I even brought you lunch. All before noon.”

“Mrs. Lovett.” He prompted evenly. Not humoring her incessant rambling.

She sighed heavily. “Haven’t got to him yet. He’s an upper-class man, ya know? Really has no reason to be giving the time of day to an ol’widow.”

“That makes him an even larger threat. Stop wasting your time.”

Mrs. Lovett put her hands on her hips. “Now, Mistah T. What should be my means of even getting past his red stone wall?”

He finally turned to face her, right before her eyes with three swift steps. “Just how you’ve got your hands on all razors. Lift up your skirts.”

He could barely finish that sentence before Mrs. Lovett smacked him across the face with a loud crack.

“You’re a bleeding arse, you know that?! I don’t know why I haven’t kicked you onto the streets to rot.” She spat with as much venom as possible. “Wouldn’t even have those precious razors if it weren’t for me. Think about that!”

She’d stormed away before he could retaliate, before he could slam her against the wall and hold the cold silver to her throat. Before he could reassert dominance. He fell back against the chair, the longer he sat there, the more he thought that what he said was completely out of line. Groaning loudly. Unless he wanted to be the butcher and the barber, he’d have to think of a way to make it up to her. But how?

Mrs. Lovett took the stairs down, two at a time. A bat out of hell dressed in a funeral gown. Entering her shop with a cry of aggravation. Toby peeked in the parlor room, seeing his Mum pitch a throw pillow to the wall opposite her with so much force, the seam tore. He quickly rabbit-scurried away to hide in his burrow. The tiny redhead let out another adolescent moan of frustration. Plopping down on the settee with a belated huff. Burying her face in her hands.

Tears threatened to fall. No! She didn’t have time for that. After a long moment, that could have been an hour, she stood up with newfound determination.

Fine! He wanted her to rid them of that pompous king of a barber, then she would do just that. It was nearing sunset, that git would be heading out soon to enjoy the evening’s pleasures. Perhaps, dressed up enough – she would look like a desirable date to spend his night. Stomping over to her bedroom and hurrying to reach in her wardrobe for the newest addition.

A black satin dress with a skirt that fawned out. Intricate silver embellishments decorated the bodice. A sweetheart neckline that exposed just enough of her soft ivory skin to lure any man. The sleeves draped past her shoulders, accentuating her delicate-looking appearance.

Smiling wide while lacing up the corset, caring for the silk red ribbons with immaculate care. Slipping on gloves and stockings that matched. Neatening her pigtails so they framed her pale face, creating a stark contrast.

Leaving just as the sun was beginning to melt along the horizon, teetering a bit as she rarely wore heels this tall. Bambi on ice as she started for the palace of a residence.

Sighing with relief as she spotted him leaving from where she could see the brick wall, wearing a tailored suit. He looked like he was about to hail a carriage. Struggling to pick up speed, she had to hurry. Tripping over her feet as she finally reached their side, breathless. Never again, she didn’t care that they were a symbol of status, she was never wearing the impractical things again.

“Oh” He said, acknowledging her as he turned his head. “Who might you be?”

She beamed, bowing her head respectfully. “Mrs. Lovett, sir. A pleasure.

He smiled back. “A pleasure.”

“Couldn’t help but notice that you looked about to hail a carriage into town, I was hoping that I might be as lucky as to ride with you?” Her brown eyes big and pleading.

“Certainly.” His eyes glimmered under the fading sunlight.

Soon, before they could continue the conversation – the horses pulled up to the curb with a melodic trod, the groom opening the carriage door for them. Even extending a white gloved hand to Mrs. Lovett and helping her up the high-stoop.

She looked to him as the carriage begun toward their destination. “How rude of me, didn’t ask your name.”

“Mr. Ainsworth.”

“Mr. Ainsworth.” She echoed with a shy smile.

“But you can call me Liam.”

Mrs. Lovett licked her bottom lip, straightening posture. Assessing her surroundings and the situation as the quick advancement pulled her out of the daydream of a daze. So far things were still in the clear, but she knew she needed to show caution moving forward.

With that, she reached down and unbuckled her tall heels and pitched them out the window without a second thought. Liam’s eyes went wide, he shrunk back a bit, warily. Mrs. Lovett shrugged. “Useless things, better off in stilts.”

He chuckled, putting a careful hand on her leg. “When we reach the town, I’ll buy you a pair of leather boots. Woman of your standing can’t be going about with cold feet.”

Mrs. Lovett felt her cheeks go warm. As he added. “Certainly not on my watch.”

He smelled of a cologne that was more calming an aroma than the spring air after it rains.  His breath was warm against her face, his touch gentle. She wanted to lean into it, she wanted the comfort he seemed to be offering. Liam saw this and moved to wrap a protective arm around her shoulders. Unable to resist, Mrs. Lovett melted into his embrace. Lolling her head against him.

This was so irresponsible, she didn’t know this man, nothing about him at all. He could be as worse as the judge for all she knew, yet here she was alone in a carriage with him. All cozied up in his arms, easily the butterfly in a hungry spider’s web. Still, she couldn’t help it. She was finally warm and couldn’t remember the last time she was this content. For just a moment, she could close her eyes and have not a care in the world. The night welcomed them with the cool breeze gracing their cheeks, the stars bright and glittering above them. Shining promise.  

#Sweeney todd #sweenett #chapter one #fanfic

[spark-of-magic-archive]

Here it is, everybody! The Empress of Magic event ending drabble! I hope you like it, and happy Halloween everybody!

The eve of Nightmare Night was coming to a close. As the clock’s hands grew ever so much closer to the hour of midnight, the activity in Ponyville began slowly dying down. Houses found themselves devoid of candy as young (and old, Ponyville was a fun-loving community after all) ponies dressed as this or that trotted through the streets, carrying bags of various sweets with them wherever they went. The air was filled with mischief as tricks and treats were found aplenty.

But not everypony was partaking in the festivities as usual. There was one group in particular that answered to a higher calling. Their names are not important, but rest assured that they were ponies most knew as friends, neighbors, and maybe even something more. They were the common folk, but they didn’t see themselves as such. Regardless of their typical profession, be it as a baker, a florist, a musician, or something else entirely, tonight they shed their respective titles for a glorious duty most could only dream of.

The group took to the streets with pride. Despite their disappointing lack of pitchforks and torches, one could easily guess that they were what was known as a mob. (Although they debated calling themselves other terms, such as a gang, rabble, horde, or even ‘a particularly angry group of upstanding citizenry’.) The mob marched down the streets of Ponyville, leftover citizens galloping out of the way in a last ditch effort to get leftover candy, the poor souls. As they trotted, they kept an eye on the object of their scorn and contempt, as well as their ultimate goal: The Castle of Friendship.

The Castle had changed little in the time since the Empress’ reign. Save several banners hanging from its upper regions that bore the Empress’ cutie mark, the castle looked almost exactly the same as it normally did. But the dim light of the moon cast sinister shadows across its surface, and the fog, while great for setting the mood, managed to create an altogether spooky atomosphere, something the mob was aware of as they approached.

But their eyes weren’t set on the flickering shadows or the admittedly cool fog. It was on the figure, standing atop the castle balcony with her glowing red eyes looking down upon the township before her. Despite the lack of wind, her black scarf moved as if blown by a stray gust, as did her mane. In but a moment, her intimidating gaze fell upon the ponies before her castle.

“Who goes there?” The Empress demanded. “Why are you disturbing me in the dead of night?”

One of the mobsters (assuming that is the proper term for a member of a mob, tales such as this are not always grammatically accurate), a young foal dressed as if he were a brave knight, stepped forward. His armor, likely store-bought, gleamed with the light of the immaculate moon. His sword hung at his sword, sheathed and probably about as deadly as a moist paper towel. Still, he spoke from the heart with courage and bravery most his age wouldn’t and shouldn’t know.

“We’ve come to defy your rule, wicked empress!” His words somehow managed to reach the balcony, and thus the ears of the curious tyrant. “Ponyville is a free land, and it belongs to the princesses!”

“Princesses?” The word came out as a laugh. “The time of princesses is over, youngling. Go back to your home and eat your candy. Leave your ruler to her peace.”

Another pony stepped forth, this time a filly only slightly older than her knightly companion. She was dressed in a flowing elegant robe, such that the uneducated eye would mistake her for dressing as a princess of sorts. But upon a closer look, one would note the magical (although sadly fake) runes drawn into her outfit. This was a mighty sorceress, as mighty as any who bought their wand at Sofas and Quills’ Nightmare Night sale.

“Princess Twilight, please reconsider,” the sorceress filly pleaded. “We know there’s good in you. You don’t have to be evil.”

The Empress scoffed. “I wasn’t forced to be evil, little filly. I chose to be! I am the embodiment of Harmony and Magic, my rule is divine. Any who stand in my way will be crushed as they should be.” Her eyes scanned the mob, ignoring the crowds of ponies watching the show from the sidelines. “Is that what you wish to see, my little ponies?”

To their honor, the mob stood resolute. Each costumed hero looked the empress in the eye, as if daring her to accept their challenge. “Fine. You’ve sealed your own fate.” The princess leaped over the balcony’s railing and onto the ground below. The spectacle was so impressive that one might not have seen the magical aura surrounding her hooves, carefully protecting her from the might of gravity.

Her horn gave off a startling bright glow as her body was raised into the air. Wisps of magenta light streaked around her body, becoming brighter and more numerous as they ran through the air, eventually culumnating in a bright pinkish-white sphere of magical energy.

Fancy light shows were easy. While illusion magic wasn’t Twilight’s forte or even one of her top five magic schools, she could appreciate how she could go all out with it and not risk hurting somepony. It was all about creating a spectacle, something that wasn’t real but could still entertain. In a sense, illusion magic was just about telling the best story, one that fooled your mind. And Twilight was about to tell a fantastic story.

The sphere was suddenly cracked open as a creature crawled out of it. It was like a pony in shape, but that’s where the similarities ended. It was as tall as a two-story house and was proportionally wide and long. It had no eyes, mouth, or any true discerning features beyond its mane and tail. It body was like a constellation, made up of stars and galaxies and universes that twinkled and shined. It ran the entire color spectrum, giving off a light that couldn’t be seen, but just as easily managed to illuminate the whole area.

Twilight hoped they were enjoying the trick. The spell was pretty draining, even with the backup magic reserves she hid in the scarf to give her the extra fuel necessary.

And they certainly did enjoy it. The mob and the audience around watched in stunned awe. Twilight would’ve been proud of that awe, had it not been pretty tiring to keep it. “Well?” She demanded, her spell amplifing her voice so that all could hear. “I’m waiting, heroes.”

At her words, the mob charged. Well, they probably planned to charge at least. In truth the group split up immediately, each to try their own method of defeating the empress. Warriors swung their swords, pegasi darted in and stomped their hooves on her avatar’s coat, and mages send magic missles her way. Despite the apparent lack of organization, the mob was actually doing fairly well at this whole thing.

And the whole time the audience ate it up. “Oohs” and “ahhhs” were thrown out casually as the battle went on. Each time the heroes took ground, she covered it up with blasts of magic (that mostly consisted of fancy lights) and swipes of her hooves. As the battle went on and on, the Empress’ avatar grew larger and larger, becoming more powerful as she put more effort into the spell. But she knew not to go too far, of course, as whenever she seemed to gain the upper hand, a hero managed to ‘conveniently’ strike a hit on her. It was an epic battle, to be sure.

And yet, the heroes were no closer to their goal. If anything, their combined strength could only end in a stalemate. The combatants couldn’t advance without threat of retaliation, but the Empress couldn’t destroy them without being swarmed herself. It was a difficult choice, but the heroes knew what to do.

“Ponies!” One mare stepped forward from the crowd, dressed as in the attire of an Anugyptian pharaoh. She stared up at the Empress’ avatar, showing no sign of fear or worry. Which was entirely reasonable, seeing as it was a massive illusion, but still, props to her. “I know what we must do to save the princess. We must use her own magic against her.”

The Empress’ laugh echoed around the battlefield. “My own magic? What could you ponies know about magic? My spells could hardly be harnessed by even your strongest unicorn.”

“We don’t mean that kind of magic, princess. We mean a kind you know all too well.” She smiled as she looked back at the mob. “Ponies, unite your hearts against her evil. Use the light inside you to wash away the princess’ darkness.”

The Empress snarled at the mare. “You think you can use Harmony to defeat me? I am Harmony, little pony. You can’t hurt me with my own power.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, princess. Your evil has twisted you. Your idea of Harmony is suffocating and joyless, a perversion of your true nature.” She closed her eyes and lifted her head towards the heavens. “Accept this, princess. Embrace Harmony.”

At her word, a shining light appeared on her chest, a silvery-gold color that trailed upward like smoke. It was difficult to cast that spell alongside all the others she was casting, but she managed it. The light formed a beam of energy that blasted the Empress’ avatar, making her hiss in pain as it seemed to burn her magic away. The light didn’t fade, nor did its power, only serving to continually pester the Empress and weaken her form.

Perhaps if this mare was alone, her light would have been easily extinguished by the Empress’ power. But she was not alone. One by one, each of the heroes raised their heads as the light of their hearts came into view. They blasted the Empress’ avatar with this light, burning away at her. Each added light made the avatar shrink, mist rising from where its body was being destroyed.

Soon the entire party of heroes was generously giving their light to the cause. Within a few more moments, the avatar was gone. But its work was not yet done. For the avatar was a symptom of a much greater evil, one that had to be dealt with before the night could be over.

The Empress herself.

She screamed in pain as the light struck her body. The power was blinding, so much so that nobody could see Twilight’s tricks beneath it all. With the avatar illusion gone, Twilight found her spells a lot easier to cast than they were before. This bit was going to be the easiest of all. Nobody could see the flash of her horn or the teleportation spell it cast.

Instead, when the light fell away and all was dim once more, all that could be seen was the Empress, laying on the ground weakly, her mane and tail both a frazzled mess. Slowly, she blinked her eyes. Once. Twice. All leaned in to see what they could not from afar: That the Empress’ eyes had seemingly changed color, from a bright blood-like red to a deep purple, and that her mane and cutie mark alike had changed to their previous state.

Twilight made an effort to appear like she was struggling to get to her hooves. Not a hard thing, seeing as she was mentally, emotionally, and physically drained after this whole scenario. Once she did, she looked out to the party of heroes and the audience beyond them. She glanced to the ground and picked up the fallen scarf with her magic, staring at it intently before announcing, “The Empress has been defeated! Ponyville is free!” As she spoke, the banners hanging from the Castle of Friendship fell to the ground, accidentally engulfing anypony who just so happened to be watching from that particular vantage point.

But this was of concern to no one, as all burst into cheer almost immediately. Celebrations were had, with ponies congratulating each other and hoof bumping and complimenting on their work. The festivities soon dissolved into a sort of afterparty. Characters were broken as the play came to a close. The Empress was defeated, and those who partook in the act were all the merrier for the fun they had.

Nobody noticed, in their excitement, that the star of the show had slipped away towards the end of things. Twilight was happy that everypony had fun, and she considered that the greatest achievement of it all, but her mind was not on that right now. Instead she was focused on something greater, a reward she had been looking forward to for some time.

And that, the princess decided as she crawled into her bed, mere moments from passing out, is a good, long nap.

#{Drabbles} #{Empress of Magic} #((Shoutout to Ace for the suggestion that inspired this whole thing #I had no clue what I'd do if not for that.))