Today is the anniversary of the beginning of the Newsboy Strike of 1899
And while you listen to Newsies for the umpteenth time today, I ask you to remember those very young, very real newsboys who started it all.
When Joseph Pulitzer and William Randolph Hearst decided to raise the price of a newsboy bundle of papers from 50 cents per hundred to 60 cents, purely to increase the sales of their newspaper. They didn’t think about the toll that would take on the kids that hauled their papers around, selling them for pennies to support themselves and families. These newspaper tycoons didn’t think those boys would realize how unfair that was on them. They clearly didn’t think they were smart enough.
On July 21, 1899, a bunch of angry kids with no money refused to sell those newspapers, demanding that the owners of the papers lower the price back. Within weeks, that small group of kids turned into 5,000 that successfully stopped traffic from coming across the Brooklyn bridge. Not only did that stop paper distribution in the city, but also in most New England cities, which is a HUGE feat. The newspapers tried to get men to sell the papers, but even those men sided with newsboys and refused to sell
After two weeks, Pulitzer & Hearst and the newsboys came to an agreement: the price would not be lowered, but the newspaper companies would now buy back all unsold newspapers; and on August 2, 1899, the strike ended.
The story of the strike is SO. IMPORTANT. These boys are among the earliest examples of not only unions, but among youth rights. These kids brought to light the awful conditions in which the youth of cities worked. They slaved away rain or shine, snow or sleet, well or sick, night or day. And those newsboys didn’t even work in factories, where lives were at risk with all of the dangerous equipment being operated by children. There were no breaks, no provided water or snacks, or anything that we now take for granted because we are used to having our rights as workers respected, thanks in part to these newsboys.
Not only that, but these boys are one of the earliest examples of youth movements! These kids…these CHILDREN…were able to effectively shut down aN ENTIRE. CITY. More importantly, they shut down New York. They are proof of the power that youth can have when banded together. So if you ever think that your voice doesn’t matter, think of these boys and how a few turned into thousands.
I know when we think of Newsies, we think of beautiful dancing gay boys who belt their hearts out about Santa Fe. But today, think about the very real boys who slaved for their rights, and ultimately our rights. Because of their strike, our rights are now respected as working individuals of this country. Because of their strike, the rights of the youth of this country are now respected.
Thank you. Thank you to the boys who refused to be stepped on. Thank you to the boys who refused to give up. Thank you to the boys who stopped the World.
i was just reading about how from about 1939 to 1943 the palestinian communist party (made up of both jews and palestinians) were shutting the city down so often that it was commonly known as red haifa. reading about these possibilities is pretty sad, since they didn’t succeed, but at the same time, hopeful, since they someday might.
It was hot. It was so hot, he would’ve welcomed death. It was the kind of hot that dripped down his back, stuck to his thighs, and seeped into his veins, making it impossible to remember a time when he wasn’t so goddamn hot.
He climbed up the stairs to his apartment on the fifteenth floor, dragging his feet up the steps, the weight of his legs too much to bear under the thick heat. With each conquered flight, he allowed himself a few seconds of respite while he pumped himself up to take on the rest of the stairs - one more flight to go.
When he makes it, he slumps against the doorframe and breathes heavily, pulling a heavy hand through his sweaty hair. He groans slightly, but then thinks against it, as complaining about the heat required more energy than he was willing to emit.
Unlocking the door, he drops his belongings at his feet, whining at how hot his fifteenth-floor, one-bedroom loft is. Moving to New York City had never been in the plans, but when the opportunity to establish a homebase for his own record label came about, he knew he’d be stupid to pass it up. He’d always loved New York, always inspired by the industrial feel, never lonely in the city that never sleeps. He’d gotten used to the hustle and bustle of the city, and he enjoyed watching the seasons change throughout the year. He figured nothing could get much hotter than Los Angeles in July, but he didn’t account for what the center of New York City had to offer. At least LA had a breeze - at least LA had open spaces - at least LA had swimming pools. The heat in New York City nearly made him feel trapped, unable to escape the skyscrapers and concrete, closed in on all four sides.
He’d always liked the heat. It meant that he could cool off in a large body of water, the relief of silky waves something to write home about during the hot summer months. He’d felt at home in the water, never fearful of the ocean or diving into the deep end of a pool. He relished in how it made him feel weightless, how the water calmed his nerves and relaxed every muscle in his body. He’d always loved the heat, but he’d never experienced this. A heat that he couldn’t escape, a heat that he couldn’t find solace from.
He slowly makes his way to the windows - large, streak-free glass rectangles - and opens them up. The relief is minimal, but at least it provided a slight breeze that provided a relief lasting all of two seconds. Yellow taxi cabs honk below him, the flow of traffic at the intersection outside of his building coming to a halt. Without the traffic lights working, everyone forgot how to drive. He rests the heels of his hand against the windowsill, looking down on the street while his forearms glisten with sweat in the sun. He shakes his head knowingly and wonders if he had ever seen a more chaotic sight. He’d performed for screaming fans in stadiums that sat a hundred thousand people, but it was an experience to see the entirety of New York City shut down. The last city-wide power outage had been in 2003, but back then, he was still a young boy in Holmes Chapel, never thinking that he’d find himself here, with his own apartment worlds away from the small town he loved so much.
And just to be sure that we’re all on the same page: there are no bright yellow school busses in Baltimore City. The police shut down public transportation and filled the streets with an army in riot gear. Thousands of teens on those same streets, trying to get home. How many were scared to make eye contact for fear of being the next Freddie Gray? How many were pissed-off enough to break a window or set a fire?
Morning run complete! It was a good solid run even though I got up tired! I wore sweat pants to the gym this morning so my legs weren’t freezing when I got there! 🏃👍💪
It is supposed to lightly snow here today. If it snows the city shuts down, you northern peeps would laugh your butts off at us! Haha 😆
I am officially the last office hold out who has not gotten sick, my uncle fell ill this morning! I am hoping I can continue to evade this crud! I am hiding in my corner of the office lysoling the junk out of everything! 😷
I also made boxer portraits for y’all! It is Memphis and Slevin! 🐶
A/NHey Lovelies…I been trying to get through my block, so I’ve been pulling out stories I started long ago, and never finished. This is one of them. Please enjoy. It is rather long for a shot, but I tend to tell rather long stories…lol…Thanks for taking the time to read and please enjoy. (Special shout out to @epiphanysweet76 who has been giving me encouragement through me funk….Thank you)….
“Hold the elevator! Hold the elevator!” The man shouted trying to catch the sliding doors. Michonne pressed the door open button to stop if from closing. The gentleman got on the elevator and blew out an exhaustive breath.
“Thanks. I’m struggling with all my stuff and don’t want to wait for the next ride up,” he said tugging two suitcases and a heavy coat in his arm.
“No problem,” Michonne told the man. They stared at one another for a moment before they looked straight ahead. “What floor are you going to?” she asked.
“The tenth,” he stated. Michonne nodded and pressed the button.
“Same floor as me,” she chimed. The man looked at her. Something about her caught his eye. He decided he would engage in a brief conversation as they ascended the hotel floors.
“Yeahhhh. I’m not even supposed to be in Detroit this long. The snow delayed my flight at the exact moment the convention ended.”
“What a coincidence. My flight was delayed. The snow ruined everything for me. I had to be back home tonight,” Michonne said with a bit of sadness.
“Important night?” The man asked. Michonne nodded her head.
“Yeah. Super important. That’s what I get for trying to squeeze a last minute business dealing in.” The elevator dinged alerting they reached their floor. The gentleman extended his hand out, indicating that Michonne could exit first. He followed behind her.
“I guess you can get caught up on overdue work…or sleep?” The guy suggested. Michonne shook her head.
“Nah. I’m going to that bar downstairs and getting drunk.” She laughed, shrugging her shoulders. “Probably won’t, but it’s tempting,” she looked at the wall, then at her room card. She was in 1016. The arrow pointed to the right for those rooms.
“Heading this way.” Michonne started off in that direction. “Nice chatting with you,” she said before she walked off.
“It’s Rick. My name’s Rick, if it makes a difference.” He smiled and that’s when she noticed his blue eyes. How deep and sky like they were.
“Michonne,” she slowly said, taking him in. Rick had on a navy business suit, and pulled his suitcase along. A shoulder bag across his broad chest probably housed his laptop or important papers. Michonne gave him a sweet smile.
“Well, Rick. Hopefully this storm blows through so we can catch our flights. Have a good night,” she said with hope. Rick smiled once more and nodded his head.
“You too… Michonne, was it?” he asked looking her over. She wore a black skirt and black blouse with red flowers scattered about. Her shoes were red on the bottom and matched her outfit. A long, red Peacoat draped to the floor, covering her stocking clad legs.
“Yeah,” Michonne confirmed.
“That’s a pretty name.” He didn’t smile after his compliment, just kept staring. Michonne swallowed then pointed behind her.
“Thank you. Um…I should go.” He nodded and watched her walk down the long corridor, his eyes following her until she disappeared around the curve in the hall. Rick started to not completely hate being stuck in Detroit.
Certain things about the city he found…intriguing.
“Can I get another one?” Michonne asked the bartender. She looked around at the perfect little bar. The snow kept many away for the night, so only a few of the hotel patrons were inside it right now. The short bartender walked up to Michonne, her hair swinging side to side.
“That’s your fifth shot. You sure you wanna keep going?” Michonne looked at the pretty girl with a brighter shade of red lipstick and smiled.
“What’s your name?” Michonne asked eating some pretzels.
“Rosita,” the bartender said with a slight accent. Michonne grinned, the liquor she imbibed making her feel lighter.
“Rosita…I am stuck in this freezing city, in a hotel. I’m supposed to be at my son’s basketball game tomorrow. I feel like the worst mother in the world, and I’m trying to drink my pain away.” She picked up her shot glass and clunk it against the counter. “Pour until I pass out,” Michonne said.
“If you pass out, I’m not carrying your ass upstairs. No one is,” Rosita said pouring another shot. Michonne giggled.
“I’m a big girl. I can handle my liquor. And I’ve slept in worse places.” Michonne raised her eyebrows before she took her sixth shot and sat the glass down. Rosita just shook her head with a grin.
“You guys sell food here?” Michonne asked.
“Yeah. Burgers, fries, onion rings… other things. You want a menu?” Rosita asked. Michonne lit up.
“No, no. I know exactly what I want. Can I have a big juicy burger with cheese and a side of onion rings?” Michonne sat up on her barstool, a bit tipsy. “Yesss. That sounds great right now.” Excitement cloaked her as she anticipated her food.
“I’ll let the cook know,” Rosita said walking away from Michonne. “Hey, sir. What can I start you off with?” Rosita asked someone else out of nowhere. Michonne turned her head and saw the gentleman from the elevator. Rick?
“Scotch. Straight up,” he said. Michonne squinted her eyes. This man couldn’t be that sexy. Soft looking, curly coils. Pink, pouty lips….she got his attention.
“Excuse me. Rick, right?” she asked and he nodded.
“Yep, that’s me.” He smiled. “You weren’t lying about drinking tonight.” Rick noticed Michonne’s sluggish appearance.
“Wanted to warm myself up on this cold night,” she said. Rick grinned.
“Not used to the snow?” A smile crossed his lips when he asked he that. He noticed she still wore the same outfit, which wasn’t snow friendly. She had locs that were rolled into a french bun, and a deep red lipstick. The only thing he saw at the moment were those lips, which she kept in smile. He found her rather pretty indeed.
Michonne turned towards his direction more. “No, not at all. We maybe get a dusting of snow in Atlanta…and ice. I remember an ice storm that shut the city down for days. It was like the apocalypse started.” Rick raised his eyebrows.
“Atlanta, huh? I’m from a small town nearby called King County,” Rick added to the conversation. Michonne perked up.
“Wowwww. What a coincidence. So we missed the same flight, huh?” Michonne guessed as she looked the man over more. He took his suit jacket off and rolled up the sleeves to his white, collared shirt. She noticed this large vein running along his forearm. It should not have looked that enticing to her.
“Seems that way. The 5:45 to Atlanta, I presume?” he added to her guess.
“Correctomundo,” Michonne drunkenly said. Rick chuckled.
“Yeah. My son was expecting me. We were supposed to have dinner together tonight, but it can wait, I guess.” He seemed to fade away, but Michonne just thought she was drunk and reading into too much.
“What’s the occasion?” she asked hoping for good conversation. She found herself a little bored. Being cooped up in the airport, then the hotel, did that to her. Rick smiled, but sadness covered him.
“Celebrating his mom’s birthday.” Rick answered. Michonne cooled her thoughts on Rick. He was a married man. She saw the faint ring line on his hand, suggesting he hid it somewhere. He was probably looking for a quick affair, which she was not into.
“Sounds nice,” Michonne said evasively. Rick nodded, catching a quick glance of her.
“Yeah,” he added. Rosita brought Rick’s drink to him.
“Thank you,” he said to Rosita.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” Rosita reminded. Rick smiled as she walked away.
He heard the voice of the woman a few seats down the bar. In only the few minutes he had known her, he wanted to talk to her. It was strange.
“Your wife is a lucky woman. I could barely get my last boyfriend to remember my birthday.” Michonne remarked, a tiny chuckle leaving her throat. Rick’s smile disappeared altogether.
“Yeahhhh…she’s a lucky woman.” His voice sullen, he took a swig of his drink. His eyes stared at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Rick tipped his cup of brown liquor, looking inside the circular opening. A heavy breath left him. He heard the woman start speaking again.
“Well, my 14 year old son told me that I don’t care about him. That I put my job first. But me being me I had to squeeze this meeting in. I had to seal this deal. I promised him I’d be there for his game, but my luck is in the shitter right now. The weather probably won’t clear up,” Michonne joined Rick’s somber look. She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. The tears wouldn’t come. She pointed her finger into the bartop, her speech slurring just slightly from her drinks.
“But I’m a good mom. His dad died when he was 8 and I’ve been doing it all on my own. These last few years have been stressful on us. I want to succeed in my job, you know, make more money. That means more time from home, and I know Andre doesn’t understand that. But it’s all for him. To pay for college. To get him a car. To keep us with nice things. It’s all for him,” she went on and on, Rick noticed. He found himself interested in her story, albeit it was similar to his own.
“Sounds like we have a lot in common. My son…he’s 19. Decided he wanted to quit school and join the army. The thing is, I think that he’ll do great in the army, better than he would in school, and my kid’s not dumb. Smartest man I know. I just…” he drifted off. He wasn’t as drunk as Michonne to spill his issues on her.
“Just what?” she asked standing to move closer to him. She used the edge of the bar to guide her down there. About four chairs separated them in the desolate restaurant, and she closed the gap to none. Rick shook his head.
“I don’t want to bog you down with my problems,” he said swallowing his drink. Michonne giggled. Rick looked at her, his lips slightly pulling into a smile. He decided he liked her laugh, even if she was a drunken lady right now.
“Honey, I’m the best person to tell your problems to. I probably won’t remember them in the morning.” She pursed her lips together into a silly grin, leaning into Rick as she started to chuckle. Her fingers lightly grazed his shoulders and he felt like he was on fire.
Just then, Rosita brought out the cheeseburger and onion rings Michonne ordered. He heard Michonne moan, and didn’t expect to feel a jolt down his back; in the pit of his stomach; in his upper thighs. These feelings were foreign to him for some time now.
“I’m about to devour this food.” Michonne danced a little in her seat, grabbing a napkin. “You want some?”
“Nah.” Rick replied. “I’m good.” Michonne blew out a deep breath and then took in swift air.
“Okay… but can you promise me something?” She remarked. Their eyes met briefly and he had to smile. She just looked so… Drunk… but beautiful.
“Can you not talk about how I’m about to look eating this food. And don’t try and put me on Facebook either. I know that way. My son tries that shit,” she said holding up her finger. Suddenly, she moaned again, rubbing her hands together, and anticipating the burger in her mouth. Rick held his hands up.
“I promise. I won’t snap any photos of you. And eat how you like. I don’t judge.”
“Greatttt,” she purred, picking up the burger. Rick watched her as she licked her lips, the red stain she had on them glistening now. The corners of her mouth curled up into a smile.
Michonne bit the burger and exhaled, her shoulders slouching as she savored the delicious, sinful taste of it. “Oh my goddddd. You have to try this,” she held the burger closer to Rick. He seemed surprised that she was offering her freshly eaten sandwich to him. Rick grinned.
“Oh, I’m alright. You enjoy your burger,” he told her. Michonne shook her head.
“Noooo. This is too good not to taste.” Her voice grew more and more excited. She held the meaty burger towards Rick. She seemed persistent so he obliged, taking a bite out of the other side. Surprisingly, Michonne was right. The burger was really good.
“Told you,” she muttered between bites, covering her mouth. Seconds later she bit one of her onion rings, groaning again. She motioned him over to her. “Rick. Here. Don’t even argue with me. Try one of these.” He tried to take it from her, but she fed the greasy onion ring to him.
“Good, right?” she persisted. Rick had to agree, she was right again. She ate the other half of the onion ring, dancing in place once more. Clearly the woman was drunk, but she proved to be good company.
These are not from any one fic and I am not calling out any authors. None of these are actually relevant to the actual story. They’re all mostly background noise that the author provided that was, well, wrong. I’ll post this when I get to 15 or so 11.
1. You cannot curl hair with a hair straightener. Not without some serious talent (that needs to be explained.) You want a curling iron
2. Football helmets have face masks. Players cannot kiss each other while wearing those helmets.
2a. Hockey players can totally make out, though. Well, NHL. Probably not high school. Do your research.
3. White wine is not actually white. It is yellow/gold. It is not milk.
4. Boston gets a lot of snow. The city does not shut down with just a couple of inches.
5. Have someone proofread your teaser/summary. Especially if you have someone proofing the whole story. Get them to pay special attention to the thing you’re using the draw people in to reading your story.
6. “Ugh” is a sound of disgust. It is not a filler sound, like “uh” or “um.”
7. A Beretta is a handgun. It does not have a shoulder strap. You cannot sling it over your shoulder to free up your hands.
7a. A Gatling gun is a Civil War-era, hand-cranked, rapid fire big gun on wheels. A Tommy gun is a Prohibition-era, hand-held submachine gun. Compare and contrast my two favorite uses of these:
8. SPN specific: Baby is an automatic, not manual. No one shifts gears while driving her. Don’t even mention a clutch. And she does not have bucket seats.
9. New Yorkers are such snobs about pizza that, if they are in the NY metropolitan area, they are probably not going to willingly order from a chain without apologizing for it. If they secretly love Dominos or Pizza Hut, it is their hidden shame. It’s both ridiculous and totally understandable because New York pizza is amazing. It’s centered around NYC, so it extends to Connecticut, Long Island, northern New Jersey, and Westchester county. Upstate NY is a different story.
10. Men typically gain weight in different body areas than women, and verbalize their worry about gaining weight differently. You’re not going to read about a man worrying about his thighs getting fat, unless there are other very good reasons.
11. Britpick! I know britpicking a fic is a thing but here’s one that gets overlooked, apparently: “taking the piss” is not a phrase an American will casually use. I’ve seen it used in fics and I really have no idea what it’s supposed to mean because it’s contextually wobbly. So if you’re writing American characters, just don’t have them use this phrase. Please.
Genre: A/U, Angst, Violence, Fluff, Romance, more in the future.
Pairing: Yixing x Reader
Word Count: 5.4K
Summary: Inhumans are people born with powers, feared by most all over the world. Inhumans are often killed before the age of three or kept locked up and tested on. EXO is a rogue group of Inhumans who broke free and are now looking to free fellow Inhumans as well as get justice for their kind. However, with their powers come limitations. With these limitations, they sometimes need a helping hand.
A/N: Don’t know what came over me to write this. I just started writing it last night and it will probably be in three parts, likely with a touch of smut eventually (not this part). Pretty much MSR fluff (with the overdone sharing a hotel room trope). Sorry, not sorry.
Disclaimer: Own none of it. Just borrowing.
Scully sat in the rental car, shivering. Here they were, in the middle of Chicago, with a layover, caught in one of the worst blizzards in the city’s history.
The trip had started badly to begin with. They had been sent out to the middle of nowhere (quite literally the town was called Nowhere) to follow up and check on some fertilizer purchases. Which ended up being a waste of time for both of them. Then there was the matter of the flight home. Their first flight got canceled. So they grabbed a last minute flight to Chicago which would hopefully connect them home to D.C. But no. No. Fate had other plans by trapping them in a blizzard in the middle of Chicago, which happened to be one of the worst in recent memory.
She watched Mulder jog away from the motel office and puff into his gloved hands. “Well, Mulder,” she questioned expectantly. “Any luck?”
“No luck. It seems like the entire city is booked up with this storm. The guy said we might have luck at the Main…”
“Which of course is out of budget…”
“Better than nothing, Scully. I’ll handle it.” He shifted the car into gear. “I’ll find us a place, I promise.”
“Why am I not filled with confidence,” she mumbled, looking out the passenger window.
This is the last one I swear it just came to me and I had to ask, could you do Elriel + "Did you really just ask me that? Of course I do!"
This stupid non-canon ship will be the death of me dammit.
Azriel didn’t mind working at the cafe. They were flexible with his class schedule and his meager salary was just enough to pay for rent, a few groceries, and drinks with Rhys and Cassian every month.
The cafe was split into two parts: the actual restaurant and the coffee bar. The restaurant side served basic deli sandwiches and some soup options, and the coffee bar had all sorts of fancy drink options that were a real hit with the college students.
One of those college students was Feyre’s sister, Elain. He had met her while at Feyre’s birthday party last month held at his shared apartment with Rhys and Cassian.
He’d never seen Elain before in any of his classes, so she certainly didn’t run with any of the engineering majors. When Cassian mentioned something about Azriel’s job at the cafe, it hadn’t escaped him that she had started listening pretty intently.
So he wasn’t too shocked when she showed up the next week.
She was a pretty girl with a unique style. Her skirts and sweaters were always bright colors and soft material. Some days she would wear flower crowns and they somehow suited her even in the middle of winter. She was a bright contrast to his dark style and jet black hair.
When she had first started coming in she would always sit in his section on the restaurant side.
Azriel was uncomfortable with all the customers, but none more so than Elain. At least at first.
His hands would fidget on his notepad, shaking when he wrote down her order - the same thing every time: a BLT with extra pickles and a lemonade. As soon as she said it she would smile at him brightly and he would mumble something about the food being out soon before vanishing to the back room.
She stayed forty-five minutes every day. She would eat, read, glance at Azriel every two minutes, and then leave as soon as he caught her eye long enough to give him a goodbye wave.
It was routine. Azriel could handle routine. And he didn’t dislike Elain, not by any means. She just… intimidated him. She was so bright and smiley and sunshiney and nothing that he understood at all.
But… he liked her. He liked her visits. After a few weeks he found himself anticipating her arrival every day, making sure to keep her table open and the pickles stocked.
And then he got moved to the coffee bar.
It was the most popular part of the cafe, and they had more than enough waitresses on the restaurant side. And according to the manager, Azriel’s “mysterious aesthetic” matched the coffee shop culture they were trying to advertise… whatever that meant.
So when Elain stumbled into the coffee shop side on his first day as a barista with wide eyes at the crowd full of beanie wearing, script writing hipsters, Azriel finally forced himself to recognize that she came to the cafe every day for HIM.
She had smiled brightly at him the same way she always did, cutting her eyes over to him every few seconds while waiting in line. When she finally reached the register and he went to take her order, she froze.
“Ummm… what do you suggest?” She had asked innocently. Azriel had to bite back a laugh.
“Well I drink an Americano almost every day.”
“I’ll have that then,” she had said brightly, standing up on her tiptoes excitedly.
After he had made her drink, he kept his eyes on her while serving the other customers. A guy ordering a mocha frappuccino had looked at him like he was insane when he laughed suddenly after seeing the hilarious face Elain made at the first sip of her drink.
It was clear she hated the coffee, but she stayed the whole forty-five minutes like she always did. He wasn’t able to look over at her or talk to her hardly at all since the coffee bar was constantly busy, but he knew she was there.
He did make a point though to catch her goodbye wave through the crowd.
This continued for a week. Every day he suggested her a new drink and she agreed immediately. And every day she could barely swallow it down and threw it away without another sip.
Then on Friday, there was a horrible thunderstorm that closed down half the bridges in the city. So on Saturday morning when Azriel was working, the coffee bar was - for once - blissfully quiet.
And there she was. In her bright blue raincoat and a yellow umbrella stumbling through the door with a huff as she pushed her wet hair out of her face. Azriel leaned against the counter and laughed.
“Nice umbrella,” Azriel called out. Elain jumped, the umbrella in question slipping from her hand and clattering to the floor.
“Oh shoot,” she murmured, making Azriel laugh as she bent down to pick up the umbrella. She whipped her head up at the sound of his laughter, whacking herself in the face with her wet hair. “For goodness sake,” she huffed as she finally pulled herself together.
Azriel was still chuckling as she hung up her coat and umbrella and walked over to the counter.
“It’s quiet in here,” she said, a blush blooming on her cheeks. “I’ve never seen it not packed before.”
“That’s because most people aren’t crazy enough to come to a coffee shop when half the city is shut down.”
“I’m not crazy,” Elain bit back. Azriel’s brow lifted in surprise. “I just like… coffee,” she said carefully.
“Elain,” Azriel deadpanned, narrowing his eyes at her. “Come on. Do you really like coffee?”
“Did you really just ask me that? Of course I do!” Elain shot back incredulously.
“Okay.” Azriel stood to his full height. “If you love coffee so much…”
He reached out and grabbed a small cup, filling it halfway with their traditional house blend. He sat it down in front of her smoothly.
“I’m sorry, what?” Elain’s eyes were huge.
“You like coffee, right? Then plain coffee shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Right,” Elain said slowly, nodding her head. “Coffee. Plain coffee, of course I like plain coffee. I drink plain coffee all the time, it’s like my lifeline you know? Can’t study without coffee, am I right?”
Her nervous fake laughter was the most adorable thing Azriel had ever heard in his entire life.
“Oh for sure.” He nodded back to her, biting his lip to keep back his smile.
“Okay. I’m just gonna… drink this now.”
Azriel propped his chin in his hand and watched as she lifted the cup to her lips. She winced when the smell hit her and his shoulder started to shake with restrained laughter.
Closing her eyes tightly, Elain threw back a decent amount before setting the cup down in front of her.
“Good job,” Azriel said. “You still haven’t swallowed it yet though.”
Elain nodded, her face red in pain. She squinted her eyes back shut as she forced herself to swallow the drink in full.
She took in a deep breath, licking her lips.
Azriel kept it together for about two seconds before he burst into laughter. Elain groaned, pushing the coffee away from her and putting her head on the counter.
“Is it really that obvious?” She moaned.
“Oh painfully so,” Azriel said. In a rare moment of confidence, he put his index finger under Elain’s chin and lifted her face to his. “You know you could’ve just ordered water.”
Elain blushed profusely, dipping her eyes away from his gaze.
“I know, but… I thought that would make it even more obvious why I come here every day.”
“And why do you really come?”
“You know why.”
“Yeah. But maybe I want to hear you say it.”
Elain took a deep breath, biting her lip.
“I like being around you,” she whispered. “You look at me like… like I matter. You don’t make fun of the bright colors in the middle of winter, or the flower crowns. You just seem to see… me.”
Azriel stared at her, his mouth parting at her words. Instead of saying anything though, he leaned across the counter and pressed his lips to hers.
He felt her sigh into his mouth, her lips so soft under his own. She tasted like peppermint chapstick and…
“You taste like coffee,” he said with a laugh.
“So do you. If we’re going to do this more often you need to start carrying around a toothbrush.”
Summary: The summer of Crown Prince Will Solace’s tenth birthday, he stumbles upon a boy on the beach who turns out to be a little more than he first appears.
The summer of Will’s tenth birthday, he gets lost on the beach.
The water is the color of sunlight, the sand burning hot under his bare feet by the time he realizes he’s lost track of the knobby, stone-gray turrets of the castle behind him. He can already feel the itchy heat on his neck that means a sunburn, his mind helpfully supplying the exact lecture he’s sure to receive from his father when he finds his way back.
William, I understand the impulse to wander, but you have to understand that, as heir to the throne, you have a responsibility to take care of yourself.
Hello! May I please get some HCs for the chocobros and how they would react spending the night with their S/O for the first time? The thing is it was completely by accident that they end up having to do so~
OKAY OKAY, SO I’m bad at this s/o thing bc i much prefer character/character shippy things, so
it’s very neutral and if you close your eyes it works for any ship really. BUT
I did it?? I think? I DON’T KNOW GUYS.
After being fussed over by royal attendants all day, then
dragged around the Citadel to blocks of princely meetings he paid little mind
too, Noctis only wants to feel some
semblance of normalcy again. So when he’s had a long day, Noct usually finds
himself making evening visits that end with him on their couch, feet propped up
on the coffee table, suit jacket slung over the armrest and tie hanging loose
against his chest. Popping a few of the buttons open on his dress shirt lets
him feel like he can breathe again. He makes a passing mention of having a
massive headache, but apparently finds himself well enough to stare at flashy
pixels for the rest of the evening; he gets up to turn on the gaming console and
grab the two controllers off the entertainment center, tossing the second one
at them (the one that will give them the 2nd player screen, because
even though it might be their house,
he is the prince and he’ll use that
as leverage— but only for important things, like making sure he’s got the 1st player, top screen view).
It’s a small activity, filled with sitting close enough to bump
shoulders, playing dirty to get ahead, and cursing at each other with a smile
on each of their faces, but Noct just wanted this. To come over, play some video games with his favorite person,
and unwind— and he does. So much so that when they get up to grab something to
drink from the kitchen, they return to find Noctis laying across the couch,
controller loosely still set in his hands, head resting where they were
previously sitting, out cold. In short, it ends up being an impromptu
He’ll wake up, long eyelashes fluttering, with his head in their
lap and their hand brushing through his hair. Noctis has a moment of tired
deliriousness where he’s trying to figure why the ceiling looks nothing like
the one in his room before he catches the other’s gaze. Oh.Right. He shifts in
their lap and makes a move to sit back up, only to be gently kept against them.
A blush rises against his cheeks as he tries to apologize, his voice a low,
sleepy rumble in his chest. They can tell he’s trying to play it off with a cool
attitude, but the redness tingeing his ears says otherwise. He’s probably
asking a million self-conscious questions in his head, most of which come
across as a blow to his imagined nonchalant-ness—he’s worried about snoring too loud, sleeping with his mouth open,
drooling on them— but he manages to
ask what time it is. 3am. With their hand still in his hair, nails scratching
against his scalp, and his eyes closing as he tucks his face against their
stomach and sighs, there’s no argument. He might as well stay the rest of the
accidentally staying over the first time is unquestionably because of an accident. This boy tries so hard to impress the one
he likes and what better way to do so than help them make dinner? He comes over
prepared: finds the recipe that morning, picks up all the necessary groceries, and
arrives at 6 o’clock sharp to get started. He’s only a little mad at himself
for forgetting his “Kiss the Cook” apron at home. Nonetheless, Prompto insists
that he do it all himself, arguing that they do too much for him as it is—and
maybe he feels a little guilty over the fact that they paid the quite
substantial bill for their last diner date at Galdin Quay in its entirety. The
least he can do cook a small meal for the two of them. Except it’s not small.
And it’s exceedingly more complicated (and expensive)
than anticipated; but it’s fine! He’s been watching a lot of cooking shows
lately, that’s definitely gonna pay
Except none of it is much help when he’s quite a bit flustered
being around someone that makes his heart flip in his chest just from meeting
his eyes, let alone actually laughing at his stupid puns (‘Penne for your thoughts?’ he said, pouring the penne into the
boiling water. And they had actually giggled, like, a real one! Not out of
pity!) But the combination of being nervous and jittery while trying to be a
literal Bobby Flay, causes him to forget to put the lid on the blender. There’s
a quick pulse, a decisively girlish screech, and then silence. There’s now
homemade spaghetti sauce splattered over the walls, down the counter, and,
mainly, all over Prompto. Down
his chest, in his hair and across his face. He thinks for
a moment that they’ll be peeved, but when he’s greeted with the sound of
laughter and a finger swiping at the line of sauce down his freckled cheek to
take a taste, he’s relived if not extraordinarily embarrassed.
By the time they’ve got his clothes in their washer, him in the
shower, and dinner finally done, it’s late; his clothes still need to dry and
food still needs to be eaten. When Prompto comes out of the bathroom, hair damp
and drooping without any gel, wearing some mismatched amalgamation of their
clothes he borrowed, it’s natural to suggest that he spend the night. He
agrees, perhaps a bit too eagerly, laughing and watching them break out a jar
of spaghetti sauce to replace the one now slowly drying against the wall.
Gladiolus tends to
pride himself on being smooth— in some part, it’s the charm that got him in
this relationship in the first place— but, damn, is he so much more sweetly conniving
than they initially gave him credit for. Usually he finds himself planning
dates on the weekends, but when he calls them on a weekday to let them know
he’s dropping by their place for a visit after work, they know something’s up.
It doesn’t hit them until they’re cuddled up on the couch, hand-in-hand and
stomachs full after a junk food filled night of Cup Noodles and a couple beers,
watching the nightly news. “A strong
storm front moving in bringing periods of light snow throughout the evening,
ending in a combination of sleet and freezing ra—“ A dusting of snow had
the entire city of Insomnia shutting down, let alone a whole inch. “It is advisable that people stay off the
roads if possible and take caution to avoid—“
Gladio pulls them closer to kiss the top of their head and
smiles into their hair, “Guess I’m spending the night then?“ And that’s
all it takes. Honestly, how had they not seen this coming? He’d planned this
since he heard the weather report two days ago; he knows what he’s trying to
set up. They have to resist laughing with a roll of their eyes when he excuses
himself to grab something out of his car and comes back with a small,
pre-packed sports bag filled with spare clothes, a toothbrush, a razor… he is
not trying to hide this at all. Talk about over-confident. Yet still strangely
coy enough to have never outright asked to spend the night without an excuse?
The night is spent doing lot of shitty movie watching, finding
the worst direct to television productions possible and binging them—
everything ranging from one about supernatural sharks, to another about a
scorned housewife that plays off like a daytime soap opera. Gladio’s infectious
laugh makes them both more than giddy and they find themselves making fun of
every little corny line and botched CGI until the credits roll then the early
morning block of infomercials start playing. Gladio stands up, back and arm
muscles pulling his tattoo taut as he stretches and yawns before hoisting them
up too. Tossing them a wink, he declares himself ready for bed and saunters on
into their room, shedding his shirt on the way. It’s like he’s lived there the
whole time, like this wasn’t something new. The casualness of it all is more
The shops began closing their doors and the plaza’s usual
throngs of people were thinning when Ignis
suggests calling it an evening; it’s getting quite late after a long night of a
reserved, high-class dining and walking the city streets together, popping in
and out of small boutiques and sitting on park benches, watching daring street
performers make their living. It’s painfully obvious that Ignis doesn’t often
find time to unwind— and, gods, does it take an hour or so to whittle the
advisory persona down— but from the way his shoulders slouch far more than usual, the
way his lips curve into a smirk instead of a tight line of concentration, the
way he backtalks and quips, anyone can see the ease the night has brought him. Being
nothing short of an extraordinary gentleman, he’ll offer to drive them back to
their place. He outright refuses to let them take the Insomnian subway system
at the dead of night.
So the plan was to end the night at their doorstep— walking them
up the steps, leaving a chaste kiss against their lips with a promise to see
them again soon— except when he retreats, leaving them floating on air in the
doorway, watching him get into his car with an almost dorky wave goodbye, Ignis
can’t get his stupid royal car to start. Gods, it’s making the saddest little
stalling noise and it’s nearing midnight, and Ignis is a little panicked when
the ‘check engine’ light turns on. When
he’s asked to come inside their house to figure out what to do next, he agrees,
a tad defeated. Once inside, they ask him to stay the night— not for sleazy
intentions. It’s simply that Hammerhead is far away and overnight towing is
expensive. Despite the fact that they know
he can pay for it, it seems senseless. Stay the night and wait until
Ignis feels alight with nerves. He clears his throat and tries a
few excuses as to why he shouldn’t
stay— it’s not out of ungratefulness, he assures them. Most of what he says is
trivial, nervous talking that stems from not wanting to sleep in his clothes,
or not having clean clothes to wear the next morning, or disturbing their
sleep. He plays it off as being a bother, but, really, he’s reluctant to let
them see him not at his best; as if this will change their whole view of him if
they see him so undignified in the morning, with his horrendous bedhead and un-pressed
clothes. It’s a level of personal that Ignis is not used to anyone seeing. But
when their hand is on his, and their waving off his excuses, he’s convinced to stay.
Regardless, they can’t stop him from being so apologetic for imposing
on them, acting as if he sabotaged his own car. And, wow, he is so awkward when he crawls into bed with
them, murmuring little apologies when his legs, bare from stripping down to his
briefs, brushes against theirs. They convince him it’s more than fine by
tangling them together to guide him closer into their arms, where he’ll find
that he spends the rest of the night.
Six months after graduating from Tulane University, Sadie Neal is on a one-way trip to Buffalo, New York to start her first real, big girl job with the local professional hockey team, the Buffalo Sabres. The problem? Sadie knows next to nothing about hockey. They use pucks, not balls. They wear skates, not cleats. And they play on ice, not grass. That’s it. How is she supposed to represent them on social media when she doesn’t even know what icing means outside of baking?
Louis Tomlinson (#91 / RW) is coming off a career high season (79 games, 20 goals, 30 assists, 50 total points) that he’s trying to recreate. The goal: Lord Stanley’s Cup. There’s a magic in the locker room that feels like it could be their year. He stays focused by keeping hockey and his personal life separate. Everyone knows that.
For the longest time, I’ve assumed that Peter had to have fallen in love with Juno during the very last minutes of Murderous Mask– between
“I don’t tell anyone my name. It would take someone very special for me to tell it now.”
on page 32 and
“You’re so cute like this, Juno. Until we meet again.”
on page 33, during which time he must have written the note where he explicitly gave Juno his name. All this time I’ve been operating under the assumption that they had some kind of exchange during those two pages that convinced Peter to trust Juno when he didn’t literally two minutes before. After all, why withhold the name for all of forty-five seconds? What did Juno say in those seven lines that resonated so powerfully with Peter that it changed his mind?
Summary: Written for @thexofiles Go Fic Yourself segment for War of the Coprophages. I’m paraphrasing, but I believe the request was for a fic where, instead of going to Massachusetts to avoid the fumigation of his apartment, Mulder spends the weekend at Scully’s.
The alarm went off and Scully groaned. Time to face the day and get ready and try to figure out how to accomplish it with another person in the apartment facing the same predicament. Maybe they should have talked about it the night before. She made the decision to start the coffee first and then check with Mulder to see how they could split their time with the bathroom.
Mulder was still asleep when she crept out of the bedroom and she decided it would give her the opportunity to take a quick shower and then they wouldn’t have to divide up the time all that much. She was washed and dried in under twenty minutes and Mulder was awake when she came back to the kitchen to retrieve her coffee.
“Morning,” Mulder rasped.
“Good morning,” she answered.
“I won’t be long.”
Scully sipped on her coffee for a few moments, but left it behind to go get dressed. Remembering the weather was supposed to be bad, she looked out the window. It had definitely snowed overnight, but only a few inches from what it looked like and the road was mostly clear. She put on a black pantsuit with a cream-colored blouse and went back to the kitchen to put some bread in the toaster oven.
Just as the toast finished, Mulder came into the kitchen, buttoning his cuffs. She could smell his presence behind her as she buttered and jellied the toast, sharp and fresh, before it ha a chance to wear off a little and become more subdued and settled. It made her smile and she wasn’t sure why.
I was in Barcelona for the Spanish general strike in 2002, it was fuckin amazing and inspiring. Never felt what is was like to be in a city that had been shut down by the working class before or since. Highlight was KFC and Burger King desperately trying to stay open and being pelted with bottles
Hiya! So, there was just a storm in my area, but not really any lightning. Plenty of thunder. I put a jar out (didn't get any water cuz it fell off the railing :/) but there was hail! I scooped up a bunch and my question is: what can I do with melted down hail? Is it considered storm water? Or is it its own thing? Thank you!
I’d consider it storm water. We don’t get much thunder and lightening here in Portland, mostly just drizzle from October to June. So when we get heavy rain or wind or hail or snow, something out of the ordinary, I consider that storm water. I think hail would fall into that category. I’ve also collected and melted icecicles from snow and ice storms that have shut the city down. That seems dramatic enough for me! It made some kick ass war water.