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[squishious]

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[star-spangled-steve]

His New Partner

Chapter 19: The Proposal

Series Masterlist

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Words: 4019

Warnings: Marriage proposal, breast touching, loads of fluff.

A/N: I’m in partial disbelief that I even made it this far into the series, but I’m really excited to be posting this chapter. And also, thank you so much for 300 followers, it means the world to me!

Steve nervously twiddled his thumbs as he sat in the lobby of Stark Tower, waiting for Y/N to finally come down. People came and people left through the big glass doors, got on and got off of the elevator, all the while the Captain watched them with a certain fear in his crystal blue eyes. He knew that within minutes, Y/N would be getting off of that elevator, together they would walk out of those big glass doors, and what was possibly the most important night of his life would ensue. The night that he was going to propose marriage, the night that Y/N may agree to be his wife. That’s even if she says yes, of course. What if she doesn’t? What if it’s too soon? All of these possibilities came swarming into Steve’s mind, making him more and more anxious by the second.

Fortunately though, they were interrupted by the sound of high heels clicking on the tile floor, and the shiny pointed toe of black stilettos appearing in Steve’s line of vision. He instantly knew who they belonged to.

The man’s eyes ran up the full length of her body, landing on the beautiful familiar face that he loved so dearly. “H-Hey, pretty girl.” Steve’s jaw slightly dropped at the sight of her, and he stood up from the stiff lobby couch.

“Hello, honey.” Y/N greeted, giving him one of her million-dollar smiles and placing down the medium-sized gift bag that she was holding.

“You look... wow. You look gorgeous, N/N.” He marvelled, taking her left hand is his right one and giving her a small twirl. The 360-degree view was just as wonderful, the fitted red lace of her dress showing off her curves just perfectly. “Aren’t I the luckiest man in the world?”

“Here I was thinking that I was the lucky one.” Y/N bit her lip, placing both of her hands on his firm chest. “You look so handsome in your suit.”

Steve chuckled and put his own hands on her upper back, an appropriate place considering that they were still in public. “Happy Two Year Anniversary, doll.” He recited the words that he had already told her multiple times that day.

“Happy Anniversary, Stevie.” She leaned up and gave him a sweet peck on the lips. “And I love you.”

“Love you too, baby.” Steve said with a grin. He felt Y/N’s fingers lightly toying with his black tie so he glanced down, though instead of checking out his own attire, his eyes decided to focus on something else. The wide open cleavage of her breasts, that’s what. Steve really tried not to stare, but it was displayed so gloriously by her long v-neck that he just couldn’t help it.

Y/N faked a cough to get his attention, breaking the man out of his trance. “Steve.”

He instantly shook his head, respectfully meeting her E/C eyes once again. “Sorry, sweetie, that was kind of rude of me.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry. That’s why I wore it.” Y/N giggled, making Steve laugh too. “It’s just that if we keep standing here like this, people are going to start taking pictures. Next thing we’ll know, a photo of you staring at my boobs will be plastered all over the place.”

“Right, right.” Steve nodded with a smile. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” 

Y/N grabbed the gift bag before he placed a large arm around her shoulders, steering them out of Stark Tower and outside to where his motorcycle was parked.

“Seems like forever ago that I was last on this thing.” Y/N spoke, lightly running the pads of her fingers over the polished exterior.

“I know.” Steve agreed, pulling out the same glossy black helmet that she was always told to wear.

Y/N raised her eyebrows, just simply staring at it as he held it in front of her face.

“Come on.” He urged.

“Seriously? Why?” She groaned, giving Steve her best puppy dog eyes. “I’ve been on here many times before, I don’t need a helmet.”

“Uh, uh. You put this on.” He shook his head at her, before realizing that she wasn’t going to do it on her own. “Fine, I’ll just put it on for you then.” Steve took the helmet and placed it on her head, adjusting the straps to her chin. The moment was a mirror image of the same way that he had done it exactly two years earlier, for the very first time. “I’m not letting a thing happen to you, princess. No chances.”

Y/N let a smile take over her face at his thoughtfulness. “Thank you.” She replied. Though right when she leaned up to kiss him, the helmet just ended up bonking Steve’s forehead instead. “Oopsy.”

“It’s fine, baby.” Steve assured with a laugh. “We’ll kiss a ton later to make up for it.” 

So with that he hopped on the bike, Y/N doing the same right behind him. She carefully placed the gift bag in between their bodies, being careful not to squish it but also not wanting it to fly away either. And with a squeeze to his waist to assure him that she was ready, Steve took off. 

He drove through the busy streets of Manhattan, through the quieter back roads of the city, until they finally reached his surprise destination.

He parked the bike and stepped off, helping Y/N step off as well. Steve removed her helmet and attached it the motorcycle, turning around to see a heavily shocked look on his girl’s face. Actually, shocked was a bit of an understatement.

The destination was absolutely stunning. A short, wide bridge positioned over a secluded little pond, wood painted an off-white colour that was beginning to chip after what looked like many years. Endless strings of fairy lights were woven around the railings, a soft glow radiating from them that would look even prettier later on. A small table and two chairs were situated in the middle of the flat bridge, plates, glasses, napkins, and cutlery all perfectly displayed. And if that wasn’t enough, about a thousand rose petals were scattered upon the floor. Y/N felt like the most special girl in the world just looking at the place.

“S-Steve, did you do this?” She questioned, not being able to take her eyes off of the romantic sight in front of her. The girl moved a bit closer to it, purse in one hand and gift bag in the other.

“Uh, ya.” He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly feeling very vulnerable.

“This is beautiful.” Y/N beamed, finally facing him.

Steve let out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding, seeing the absolutely delighted look on her face. “Thanks, doll.” He placed a hand on her back, leading her the of couple steps to the bridge and pulled out her chair for her. He let her sit down before coming upon a realization. “Oh, the food!” Steve gasped, jogging to the bike and opening up the back compartment. He pulled out a couple take-out containers and small gift bag, discretely tapping the inside pocket of his jacket to make sure that the ring was still in there. When Steve knew that the coast was clear, he walked back and placed the food in front of her, before sitting down himself.

“‘Brooklyn’s Best’!” Y/N squealed after seeing the label on the take-out container. It was the restaurant where Steve had taken her on their first date, and it very quickly became a favourite for the pair. “This just keeps getting better and better.” She smiled. “When did you even have time to pick this up?”

“Where do you think I was for those three hours this afternoon?” He glanced to the scene around him, feeling proud for all of his hard work. “Setting all this up.”

“Where did you get changed? You didn’t even come to our floor in between.” Y/N asked, beginning to place her meal on the plate that Steve had previously arranged. Somehow he was always one step ahead.

“Natasha kept some stuff up for me on her floor.” Steve told her, before pulling out some beverages from the bag that the food was in. He gestured for Y/N to hold out her glass and she did, letting him pour in her favourite drink.

“And how did you even manage this? Isn’t this public property?” She chuckled, gazing her eyes upon the tiny tranquil pond.

“I, uh, got a permit from the city.” Steve answered. “This place is usually pretty quiet anyways, I’ve never actually seen anyone here.”

The girl furrowed her eyebrows. “How often do you come here?”

“This is usually where I go when I need to calm down. I discovered it when I first woke up from the ice. It’s nice, quiet, a safe space.” He explained, opening up about this private topic after having kept it hidden for so long.

Y/N nodded her head, remembering all the times when he told her that he just ‘just needed to breathe’. This must’ve been where he went. “Well, thank you for sharing this with me, Steve.”

The man just smiled in response, taking a sip of his drink.

The couple continued to have peaceful conversation for the next half an hour, topics ranging from old memories to upcoming events of theirs. They smiled, they laughed, they ate, and they drank. The sun began to set and the sky was getting darker by the minute, just making the glow of the fairy lights even more prominent. Even more beautiful. Though the most important part of the night, to Y/N, and the second most important part of the night, to Steve, had finally arrived. The gift exchange.

“Okay...” Y/N smiled, picking up her gift bag and passing it to Steve from across the table, “open it!”

The man looked at her and grinned before removing the navy blue wrapping paper, crumbling it up and placing it on the empty plate in front of him. Steve briefly looked inside the bag before pulling out a thick, square book. A scrapbook, it happened to be. There was a ton of stickers on the front, ranging from Avengers themed to little puppies and other animals. There was a silver border around each sky blue cover, little red hearts in every corner. But what really stuck out to him, was the big label on the front with Y/N’s handwriting overtop of it, spelling out ‘Steve Rogers’ Memories’.

He looked at her inquisitively, wondering what she could’ve possibly put inside.

“Go on.” Y/N beamed, holding her hands together in excitement.

Steve did as she asked and very carefully opened the cover of the scrapbook, cautious of not ruining it. What he saw inside was enough to make his eyes widen, and skin glow just a bit brighter.

The first picture was one of his mother and a six year old him, smiling on their front porch. You could tell that the wind had been strong from the couple messy strands of Sarah Rogers hair, but little Steve had just the brightest smile on his face as he sat by her side.

The fourth picture was of him and Bucky Barnes when they were just about 9 and 10, playing in the grass with a couple of blocks. The brunette looks to be crashing a short tower with his two tiny hands, and young Steve was flying around one of the blocks like an airplane, small blonde hairs slightly falling in his face.

“W-Where did you find these?” The Captain croaked out. When he lifted his head from the book, Y/N finally noticed the tears brimming in his beautiful eyes. Though, she had no idea if they were happy ones or sad ones.

“I paid for some from the Smithsonian when I came to you in D.C., I got some from S.H.I.E.L.D. when they were cleaning out old documents.” She explained, smiling with hope. “They made me promise to take good care them.”

Steve nodded before continuing to flip through.

The seventh picture was of him on his first day of high school, looking nervous as could be. His mother had photographed him on his way out of the house, you could even see Bucky in the background waiting for Sarah to hurry it up. Steve remembered the moment so clearly.

“Doll,” he closed the cover of the book, knowing that there were still several photos in there for him to go through later. “I don’t even have words. That was... that was the most thoughtful gift that I’ve ever received in my entire life.”

Y/N bit her lip. “So you do like it? We had agreed to give smaller, but personal gifts this year, so-”

“Darling, I love it.” Steve interrupted with a chuckle, wiping his eyes with the back of his index finger.

The girl broke into a huge smile, the worries of him not liking it suddenly leaving her body. “I’m so glad.”

“C’mere, Y/N, baby.” He cocked his head to the side and patted his thigh.

She gently got up from her chair and walked over to Steve’s own, lightly swaying her hips for effect. Y/N sat down sideways on his lap, the tight dress not allowing her to position any other way. “My favourite seat.” She giggled. Her fingers ran soothingly through the back of his golden hair, seeing his eyes gleam up at her with delight, and something else that could only be described as passion.

“I love you.” Steve hummed, softly stroking her back with his large palm.

“I love you too, Steve.” Y/N slightly leaned down to give him a slow kiss on the lips, rubbing his smooth jaw as they separated.

He smiled at her, tucking a stray piece of H/C hair behind her ear. All that Steve could think about was how beautiful she looked in the radiance from the fairy lights, in the glow from the fading sunset. “It’s time for your present, sweetheart.”

Y/N have him a silly grin, making a show of glancing around the romantic location that they were presently in. “As if this isn’t enough?”

Steve just shrugged, before leaning an arm down to grab the small gift bag from beside his chair. “I like spoiling my girl.”

Said girl shook her head, grabbing the bag from him with a giggle. Y/N dug through to the bottom, feeling a metal ball chain and pulling it out cautiously. What she saw hanging from the bottom made her take a closer look.

They were dog tags. Steve’s dog tags, from World War II.

Before she could question him anything, the man cleared his throat. “Back in the day, uh, guys used to give their dog tags to their gals. My ma had my dad’s, a ton of my buddies were going to give their’s to their wives or girls when they got home. And now, I’m giving you mine. It’s something that I always dreamed about doing when I was younger, serving my country, before going home to a beautiful woman. For a while that goal had seemed impossible, but here I am now, with the beautiful woman. She gets to keep these. And even if can’t be next to you, I’ll always be right there in the palm of your hand, baby.”

As soon as Steve had finished, Y/N gave him a hard kiss on the mouth, expressing any emotion that her own words couldn’t convey.

“I’ll treasure them forever.” She told him with a smile before putting the chain around her neck, posing playfully. “How do I look, Captain?”

Steve grinned and shook his head at her antics. “Just perfect.” He wrapped his arms even farther around Y/N, squeezing her closer to him on his lap. That’s when Steve felt her shiver. “Cold, N/N?”

The girl nodded, trying to huddle even closer to his warmth.

“Go get my jacket, babydoll.” He suggested, pointing to the suit coat that had been shed about 20 minutes into the meal.

Y/N got off of his lap and walked to where the jacket was hung over the bridge railing. Though, it was right as she was putting it on when Steve remembered something very, very important.

The ring was still inside of his coat pocket.

Trying not to ruin the surprise, the man jumped up from his seat and instantly wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, slightly lifting her off of the floor. In that moment of action, he slipped his hands underneath the jacket, creating a barrier between the pocket and her.

“Woah, Steve.” Y/N chuckled, the force of his impact catching her off guard. She surely would’ve tipped over if it wasn’t his the strong hold on her torso. “What’s that for?”

“Uh, just wanted to hold my baby.” Steve said nervously, while trying not to lose his cool. “And... wanted to look at the view.” He added with a gulp, hoping to give something to distract her.

“It is beautiful.” Y/N sighed happily, though starting to feel a bit uncomfortable in his powerful grip. “Um, hon, I can hardly breath over here.”

“Right, sorry.” Steve softened his hold. His mind was searching for ideas of how to get the ring out of that inner pocket without her noticing. But he was beginning to run out of time, because surely she would feel the box against her skin eventually. Steve would just have to try something... anything.

“Look,” he spoke, “little ducks on the edge of the pond.”

Y/N stood on her tippy toes and faced to the left, beginning to smile at the sight of them. “Awe.”

Once he thought that her attention was diverted, Steve removed his right hand from her waist and brought it upwards, closer to the specific pocket. He started to toy with the entrance, slowly bringing his fingers in deeper. Steve swore that he could partly feel the suede of the ring box against his fingertips.

“What are you doing?” Y/N questioned. His strange movements had confused her.

“Umm...” he paused, trying to come up with some sort of clever excuse, “just felt like touching these.” Steve stammered before quickly grasping her left breast with his oddly placed hand. He moved his left hand to the other breast, beginning to play with both of them in hopes to convince her. “Been thinking about them all evening, darling.” 

Now, those words weren’t technically part of the ruse.

“Jesus, Steve.” Y/N moaned at the feeling of him groping and touching her chest. She threw her head back against his shoulder, closing her eyes in the process, and Steve knew that this was his perfect opportunity.

While still squeezing her breasts, he swiftly dipped his right hand’s fingers into the pocket and pulled out the small box, distracting her with a pinch to the nipple from his other hand.

“Stevie.” Y/N giggled.

“Sorry, sweetie. Guess I got a bit carried away.” He said while completely removing his right hand from her chest, dropping the box into his pants pocket. “We should probably stop anyways, though. We’re still in public after all.”

The girl turned around to face him, placing her hands on his warm chest. “Well, home isn’t too far from here. We can continue when we get back.” She grinned.

“Hm.” Steve responded shortly, eyes becoming distant.

“What?” Y/N asked.

“Home.” He shook his head with a loving smile. “I still remember the days when I thought Stark Tower was simply a big ugly building in New York. Now it’s home.” Steve stroked her cheek, running the hand down her jacket-clad arm. “You helped make it that way.”

Y/N simply blushed and looked down at her toes.

This is it, Steve thought to himself. This is the perfect moment, perfect minute to ask her to marry him.

“The more I think about it,” he continued, “the more I realize that home simply isn’t a place; or a time, in my case. It can be a person. My home is you, Y/N.”

“Steve,” she smiled, “how come you keep buttering me up like this?”

“Well,” the man puffed out a nervous breath, “this may be the most important thing that I’ve ever done. I want to do it right.”

Y/N’s tilted her head to the side. “Huh?”

Instead of solving her confusion with words, Steve physically got down on one knee and silently answered any question that she had.

The girl loudly gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. “Oh my god.”

Steve cleared his throat. “Y/N-“

“Oh my god.” She repeated in disbelief.

The man chuckled. “Doll-“

“Oh my god.” She said once again, making Steve drop his head with a lighthearted sigh.

“Shh, baby.” He instructed with a laugh. “I got a whole speech here, N/N.”

She quickly nodded her head in apology, urging him to continue.

“Y/N, you make me happier than I ever thought that I could be.” Steve grabbed her left hand in both of his, soothingly running his thumbs over the back of it. “When I woke up from the ice, all that I was searching for was a reason of why it had to happen. Why would God place me in this new time, all alone? Why would He take me away from everything that I loved, everything that I cared about? But after the day we met, on May 4, 2012, what I very quickly came to realize, was that the reason is you. This all happened to me so that I could meet the person who I love and care about most of all; you, darling.” Tears began to spring into Steve’s eyes, but he just ignored them and continued on. “Y/N, you are my best girl, my rock, my soulmate, the one, as I’ve heard you phrase it before, and I love you so, so much. It would mean the world to me if ‘my wife’ could also be added to that list.” 

He pulled out the black suede box from his pants pocket, hearing Y/N inhale a breath. Steve slowly opened it, revealing to her what was the most gorgeous engagement ring that she had ever seen. It had a smooth, shiny gold band with a simple round-cut diamond placed in the middle of it. A big, big diamond that sparkled under the fairy lights.

“So, Y/N Y/L/N, will you make me the happiest man alive, give me the honour, and marry me?”

The girl sniffled, looking into Steve’s blue eyes from her place standing above him. His beautiful orbs were filled with nothing but admiration, hope, love, and many tears; Y/N guessed that her E/C ones looked the exact same.

“Y-Yes.” She shakily it nodded, discreetly wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “Yes, of course, Steve! Of course!”

Ginormous smiles took over both of their faces, and Y/N heard Steve exhale a sigh of relief. He took the ring out of it’s case and slipped it on her left ring finger, placing a kiss on the skin right above it. The empty box went back in his pocket before he stood up, lips quickly trailing from her hand to her clothed arm and shoulder.

“Come here.” Y/N smiled, placing her hands on either side of Steve’s face and crashing their lips together.

She quickly opened her mouth and let him slide right in, their tongues dancing together in perfect harmony.

“I love you too, honey.” She said when they finally separated. Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into a big hug, burying her face in his shoulder. “So much. And I’m so excited to marry you.”

Steve stroked her back lovingly while breathing in the homey scent of her shampoo. He had been so nervous for this night, thinking of all the ways that it could’ve gone wrong. But standing there on the bridge right now, glittery lights surrounding them, rose petals beneath their shoes, he felt overwhelmingly grateful that it had all gone just right. That it was the perfect night, for his perfect girl.

“Me too, my beautiful bride-to-be, me too.”

Next Chapter

Feedback is always welcome!❤️

[chiseler]

The next to last MOVE

[The release of Delbert Africa after 42 years in prison has lit me up like fireworks. Most of what's below was written several years ago, so this is a minor update. But goddamn am I glad he's out. It doesn't put the end to anything – one other MOVE member is still languishing – but it lends the closing bracket on a time and place that's long, long been central to my life. I never talked to Delbert, but I was never less than monumentally impressed by him, even though I thought MOVE was basically off its nut. See what you think.]

In the summer of 1978, my wife Linda and I had fun towing her little red wagon full of rocks through the police line during the first confrontation between the city of Philadelphia and MOVE.

Never heard of MOVE, or only recently with an odd revival of interest? I'm not surprised. Only in Philadelphia could the record of summer-long martial law effectively... vanish for decades.

Back then, MOVE was often called a "back to nature" and/or "anti-technology" outfit: A back-to-nature-anti-technology outfit that used bullhorns, lived in the middle of a city of 1.5 million inhabitants and organized protests of Jane Fonda and Buckminster Fuller. Demonstrating against the then-82-year-old champion of the geodesic dome – who would do such a thing, why?

Only MOVE, only in our itty-bitty liberal enclave of Powelton Village, and I think no one will ever know exactly why. They followed the teachings of Vincent Leaphart, whose rambling treatise made little sense to anyone beyond his small band of raucous believers. "MOVE" wasn't an acronym, just a word, but always capitalized. Leaphart changed his name to John Africa and insisted his followers all take the last name of Africa.

Powelton, a ten-square-block Victorian snippet of West Philadelphia north of Drexel University and the University of Pennsylvania, began as the city nabobs' summer-retreat in the late 19th century, just across the Schuylkill River from Center City. By the late 1960s it had attracted a loose rattle of quiet leftists and inoffensive layabouts who were tolerant of most anybody but Drexel, which was determined to devour as much of the community as it could ladle down (and has now debased the area with overpriced apartments for its students.)

During the late '70s, Powelton's squishy acceptance allowed MOVE to occupy a pair of brick twins at 33rd and Pearl Sts., no more than a block from our commune, where they nailed together huge, ramshackle ramparts, kept a pack of half-feral dogs, ate raw meat and tossed their garbage in the yard. An all-black group (except for one scrawny white woman), they were dreadlocked and more physically fit than any health poster.

For income, they washed cars on 33rd St. (and did a damned fine job of it). On no particular provocation, they would mount the ramparts, pick up a bullhorn and harangue the world. It made a hell of a racket. They could also explode into sudden violence, especially against the police, though I regularly walked past their house and was never harassed.

The city, citing housing and sanitation regulations, declared them pests and obtained a court order telling them they had to go. The order set off one of the strangest confrontations in modern American history.

On a quiet summer evening, the MOVErs mounted the ramparts carrying rifles and dressed in camo fatigues. You'd think the police would act. Well, they did: They blocked traffic on 33rd St. That was it. They never approached the MOVE house. During the protest, Delbert Africa, their chief spokesman (one of the most beautiful human beings who ever existed) issued this statement, part haiku, part tautology, that has always defined MOVE for me:

"Any motherfucker

tries to take away my motherfuckin' rights,

that man is a motherfucker."

I doubt their guns were loaded (they have since claimed they were not). For one thing, they were pointed straight up, for show. For another, the fatigues still had folds in them – the protestors had bought them that afternoon, probably at I. Goldberg's, a decades-old army-navy surplus store.

The city's mayor was Frank Rizzo, former police commissioner from South Philly, idolized by the Italian community, hated by the gays and blacks he had hounded throughout a career of sneering, swaggering machismo (my favorite quote: "I'll make Attila the Hun look like a faggot").

Rizzo's response to MOVE was incomprehensible and ultimately ruinous for the city.  Rather than clear the house of this rabble on outstanding charges of health and safety violations, he directed the police department to place a cordon around our neighborhood and wait for MOVE to capitulate. (If China had suggested starving out a bunch of dissidents, the U.S. would have been mightily upset.) Worse, he announced his plans a couple weeks in advance, giving MOVE's supporters ample time to haul in truckloads of supplies, including a skid of dog food.

For the next roughly six weeks, Powelton was occupied by up to 2,000 police and support personnel. I still find it hard to grasp that a judge blithely approved a state of martial law to enforce health regulations. And that his ruling was never seriously challenged or overturned.

To those familiar with MOVE, the result was foreordained—they simply hunkered down and refused to... move. Us Poweltonians, meanwhile, had to show identification to enter our own streets. The local activists, in their vocal but placid way, formed so many committees to discuss the situation – roughly equal pro- and anti-MOVE – that a higher committee coalesced to coordinate them all.

About then, Linda was moving back to the commune where I'd met her and where I still lived. We had no "transportation" beyond a battered wire shopping cart and her little red wagon. Back and forth we clumped from her apartment, the wagon loaded with books, kitchen equipment and the big garden rocks she'd brought from her home in Kansas. After awhile, even the cops found it ridiculous to keep asking for our IDs. They'd grin lightly, look bemused, then stand aside.

The immense police presence was absurdly ineffective. They exempted the street behind us from the cordon, and since our block had no internal fences, I would walk Pearl, our exuberant St. Bernard, down our front steps and half way around the block, then in the back way, without a single police challenge. The neighborhood also experienced a marked increase in breaking and entering – I guess it heightened the crooks' street cred to thumb their noses at the Man.

Across the city, the police force was in a shambles from diverting 20% of its resources to a pointless, static operation. (Once the blockade was lifted, they found that MOVE had moled a tunnel through to Powelton Ave., sneaking in supplies during the entire occupation.)

As I hazily recall it, the city and MOVE reached an agreement that if the police lifted their blockade, MOVE would hand over their guns. The police lifted the blockade, and –surprise! – MOVE handed them a bellylaugh.

Then one morning Linda and I were awakened by a short, intense rattle of gunfire. It hit like a mallet: "My god, they're killing them all." As it turned out, one police officer, James Ramp, was killed but no MOVE members. Despite conflicting forensic evidence on where the shot had come from, nine MOVErs were convicted of third-degree murder and for decades were regularly denied parole.

When I returned from work that afternoon, the street in front of our house was scored with caterpillar treads. I followed them around the corner to 33rd St. The MOVE houses were gone – three-story brick Victorian twins evaporated, the ground a smooth expanse of Philadelphia's yellow-brown clay. As Linda's young son Ben said, "At least they didn't salt the earth."

The occupation and confrontation were big news in city media back then, but they never caught national attention. Why? Can you name another example of weeks-long, uncontested martial law in a major American city?

That wrapped up MOVE for Powelton, but not for the city. Seven years later, on May 12-13, 1985, under Mayor W. Wilson Goode, the local government again lost its ability to think like adults in response to MOVE. The remaining group had moved to Osage Ave. on the city's western edge and again erected ramparts, but the local population was less willing than the loosey-goosey Poweltonians to accept such disruption.

This time, the city cut corners and turned to direct confrontation. The result was an armed standoff that ended when a collective of official imbeciles OKd dropping a parcel of C4 explosive onto MOVE's roof bunker. As the resulting fire spread, rather than endanger the firemen standing ready (or so read the official rationale), it was left to go its merry way.

The entire square block of over 60 rowhouses burned flat. When the smoke had cleared and the flames died out, 11 members of MOVE were found incinerated, including John Africa and five children. There were only two known survivors, Ramona Africa and nine-year-old Birdie Africa, who was permanently disfigured.

A footnote: Ramona, along with Birdie's relatives, were paid millions in damages. Ramona bought a house in the city's Kingsessing neighborhood, where she and MOVE remnants live a relatively quiet life. After hemming and hawing, the city agreed to rebuild the houses destroyed through its asinine incompetence. As a monument to shoddy, graft-infested contracting, the replacement homes proved uninhabitable, the contractors faced criminal charges, and the bedraggled homeowners were once again evicted while their "new" homes were razed and replaced.

by Derek Davis

[msmovingforward]

A For Effort

Wow! Tiffany may just be the biggest evil genius the entire Housewives universe has ever seen! You mean to tell me you graduated Cornell at 19, graduated medical school at 23, and you didn’t see the irony in serving cricket pizza in order to trigger someone who was infamously called a “chirpy little Mexcian?” (LeeAnne’s words, not mine). Tiffany knows exactly what she’s doing. You don’t have advanced scientific degrees and your own wine label, but need Pancho the chef to explain to everyone what salami is. Though I’m not falling for her “I never had girlfriends” sob story, I’m loving the deliciousness with which she is playing the victim to our faces while riling these southern belles up like swinging piñatas. Sorry I had to get these thoughts out before they escaped me. Onto the recap proper!

We open with Mr. and Mrs. Moon discussing the aforementioned pizza soiree. Tiffany really does have everyone in her life on a delicate thread. She masterfully guilts her husband into doing EVERYTHING to set up this party (decorating, making pizza dough-which is a frickin’ process in case you’ve never attempted it) by saying she’s extremely stressed about fitting in with her new friends. (Will they accept her for two seasons in a row?!) Tiffany knows this is her time to do something BIG in order to really brand her name on the cattle that is the Dallas Housewives, and that thing is using her $15,000 pizza oven for a group of friends that includes two women who probably don’t eat. (The last time I remember a pizza oven being mentioned as a centerpiece for a party was when Camille Grammer invited everyone to her house to drink vodka out of fishbowls and find out when they were going to die and lose their legs, but I’m digressing). Tiffany makes an Excel Spreadsheet, and the two clink to pizza parties.

D’Andra heads over to her Shaman’s house. This guy is just a gay with a lot of feelings in a robe, and you know what?! Good for him! You get that money! He had to do something with all that left over spirit gum from the community theater production of Fiddler that shut down due to COVID, and what better use than fake sideburns to convince sad rich women you’re a spiritual guru?! We learn that D’Andra has developed a twitch from all the trauma of fighting with Kari in Grapevine last week. The shaman asks what D’Andra thinks she might be projecting to invite negative energy, and we’re shown flashbacks of D’Andra mom shaming Kari in last week’s episode, screaming, “I don't even care because you were my fucking friend! ... You have three kids that are grown. One child home that is under your care.” With a completely blank stare on her face, D’Andra says, “I don’t know the answer to that honestly.” The shaman tries to get D’Andra to see the bigger picture, telling her that in life there will always be people saying things she doesn’t like, but D’Andra just blames Kari yet again, saying that Kari is just jealous of her. The shaman advises D’Andra to always come from a place of love, so no one can accuse her of having negative intentions, which I’m sure D’Andra will misinterpret in episodes to come, and then he has her lie on the floor as he spreads rose pedals on her, so she can receive the gifts of Mother Earth. I’m in the wrong area of work, clearly. How much is this dude charging for this? I tell women they’re queens and listen to them bitch all day, and I don’t get paid for it!

Kameron is with her dog and her daughter in their living room in preparation for Brad the hot dog trainer to pay a house call. It’s hard for me to tell whose name I hate more, Fanci, her dog, or Hilton, her daughter. Is she named after Paris or the hotel chain itself? Gag! Court enters and informs the two small children and the dog as well as Kameron that an interested couple had just toured their home for a third time, and they have decided not to buy. I really hate Court. Why would he tell the six year old children and the dog this? Kameron is clearly not listening. At first, I felt bad for Kameron because I thought she wasn’t being given a chance to have a say in this, but then I realized this is 20 fucking 20, and she doesn’t need permission to be strong and independent. God, Kameron! What is with the Dallas women in particular and playing victims? If you want to sell the house for more then get in there and hustle, girl! Kameron informs the audience via her confessional that “[My dream house] could sell, then it could be off the market. Then Guess what! I don't have another house that I'm obsessed with!” Some women have jobs, Kameron. Even Kari is pretending to make jewelry! Some women actually take their dogs outside to walk them! Then again, I am watching this show because this is where the humor lies. Court really is the worst kind of man, though. He openly mocks Kameron’s feelings to his six year old daughter’s face, joking that if she gets hysterical about the house selling for too low, the two of them have a contract not to tell Kameron. Again, though, this IS the life Kameron is choosing. I wonder what the shaman would have to say about THIS?!

Brad comes in and informs them that letting Fanci just have a bone all the time to keep her occupied is the same as giving your kids an iPad at church. Kameron says without even a hint of irony that that is what they do with their kids at church. Brad informs the family that they’re doing a C+ job at training Fanci. Kameron, who’s never probably gotten a grade above C- in her life is thrilled, saying, “At least we got a letter!” Kameron informs us in her testimonial that she needs to feel control over training Fanci because there’s so little in her life right now she does have control over, including COVID and her home selling for too little, making her unable to afford a bigger version of her current home. ACTUALLY IF YOU DID ANYTHING EXCEPT STRAP YOUR DOG TO A TREADMILL, YOU MIGHT FIND YOU DO HAVE SOME AGENCY HERE, KAMERON. Ugh...

Stephanie is diligently working on receiving her Nobel Peace Prize by setting up her office space so that she can spend Travis’s money to give public schools luxury locker rooms. She’s heroically painted her office the same shade of off white that she’s going to have someone else paint one of the locker rooms to make sure she likes it. The pressure is really mounting, though, because if she doesn’t finish her office in time, she’s made a bet that she will have to touch Travis. No one wants that! He’s hairy! Travis comes into the unfinished office with flowers, and informs Stephanie that she’s already over budget. (Her budget, for which she did absolutely no research before setting, is $100,000, but the lockers alone are costing $70,000). Stephanie jokes that she’s going to have to prostitute herself to afford these renovations. Travis says she’s probably not good enough in bed to raise that much money. Healthy.

We are shown vignettes of the women trying to figure out what to wear to a chic pizza party. I’m confused because I’m pretty sure chic pizza party isn’t much different from chic square dance, which is what I imagine most of Dallas’s social events to look like. Kari is getting her makeup done, and she shares a text with her makeup artist that reads, “Just to set expectations: I'll probably be wrapping up the party at like 10:30, because I have a meeting tomorrow and I want to be fresh for it. Can't wait to see you all tonight.” Kari informs us that she’s NEVER gotten a text like that before in her life. Stephanie and Kameron are riding together to Tiffany’s, and Stephanie says she’s always in bed by 10, so she doesn’t have a problem with it. (Me too, Stephanie!) Kameron informs us that proper etiquette would have been to send out printed invitations with a set end time. I think Tiffany knew exactly what she was starting when she sent out this text. D’Andra arrives to the party with a container of some sort of deli salad topped with a white bow, and Tiffany freaks out that D’Andra needs to put on shoe covers. I wonder if she and Mary Cosby use the same brand. Stephanie and Kameron arrive right behind D’Andra with a piñata they forgot to give Kari at her 50th birthday party. Tiffany shows off her closet filled with easily a million dollars’ worth of Birkin bags. I do have to say, Tiffany’s closet easily outshines both Lisa Vanderpump’s and Bethany Frankel’s. I just hope TIffany has proper safeguards against moths.

The last to arrive are Kari and Brandi. In the car, Kari informs Brandi that she’s essentially over trying to make a real friendship work with D’Andra, but they can be superficial friends, and Kari will just keep D’Andra at arm’s length. So basically how it probably was all along. This story line sucks, Kari.

The two arrive just in time for Tiffany to tell everyone there’s going to be a contest to see who makes the best pizza. She also lays down some ground rules, saying, “You just have to be honest. I know that's really hard in this group ... The number two rule is no fighting. (Kari looks pissed about this rule). On your first infraction, you shall receive a verbal warning. The second time, you get pizza flour thrown in your face. (Kameron nods like she understands). Like 'Stop fighting!' And rule number three is have fun!” Brandi makes a fair point that having fun is the point of a party, and this was Tiffany’s last rule.

It isn’t until this point that I realize lackluster friend of the wives Jen is in attendance. You know it’s bad when the friend of is being outshined by the Shaman.

The women bust open Kari’s piñata, which contains a riddle: “What's wet, long, thin, hot, and down south?” Somehow this means the women will be taking a cast trip to Austin to further drag out Kari’s birthday party.

The gals make and eat their pizzas. Kameron informs us that dabbing the grease off the pizza takes away 250 calories. After the very stupid pizza contest winner is determined Tiffany reveals that they all just ate crickets, which she hid in her pizza toppings. Needless to say, Kari is PISSED. The only thing it’s appropriate to pour down someone’s throat is tequila! Brandi has to run inside to throw up, but not before she puts shoe covers on! Tiffany had intended to win Brandi over because Brandi’s love language is pranks, but this clearly has backfired. D’Andra starts meditating, and then Kameron’s alarm goes off to inform everyone they only have 8 minutes before 10:30, so they’d better scram. Not even Tiffany could have predicted these women would be so humorless. It looks like she’s going to really have to step it up if she wants to be in this clique! Tiffany informs us that the party probably got a B-, which to a tiger mom like her is basically an F. Didn’t Tiffany say she never came home with less than an A? Rough!

Will Tiffany recover from this horrible prank gone awry? Will Stephanie be able to help high school athletic departments? Will Jen ever say anything? How does she know these women? One thing is for sure; we are definitely going to long, thin, hot, wet, southern... Austin? next week!

[theas-bedtime-stories]

Underestimated

Summary: AU in which Sam returned to Stanford where he met the reader and they move in together Pairing: Sam x reader Word Count: 1,727 Warnings: None A/N: This is my very belated entry for the competition held by @casbabydontgoineedyou to celebrate 1,000 followers. You deserve so many more you are amazing! To think you are now hosting a 2k follower challenge, I am so proud of you <3  I am sorry it is late but I finally got a new laptop, this isn’t what I had originally written as that file is still to be recovered but I hope you like this. Prompt I got was #14 “Don’t let my dramatic entrance fool you - I have no idea what I am doing”

A/N 2: Shout out to @rosey-persephone for being my inspiration due to her amazing musical talent.

“Food’s ready!” You shout to the empty room as you pull your famous pasta bake out of the oven. You can hear the scrambling stampede which is your fiancé as he rushes to break-free from all the paperwork that he is undoubtedly buried in.

You are both in your final year at Stanford although you are doing completely different degrees. Whilst your fiancé is studying law you opted for a more creative, and debatably difficult, subject; music. You spent most of your time composing and practicing whilst he revised on the couch or up in the bedroom. You had been lucky that, upon announcing your engagement to your parents your father had become flustered and furious. Worried that he still hadn’t come to terms that you were with someone of a lower status to yourself you dragged him out of your parents living room; ready for a shouting match. It was then that your father had called for his secretary, mumbling indistinguishably about something being unacceptable and how you deserved better.

The feeling of warm, strong, arms wrapping around your waist brought you back to the present. Resting your head against the shoulder behind you for a moment, you can’t help but voice just how blessed you truly are.

“Sit down, I will finish serving up” Smiling you go to disagree only to be interrupted by a finger on your lips. A comfortable silence falls between the two of you as sit, waiting for him to finish piling the food onto your plates.

“Are you happy?” you mutter as he lays your plate before you. His eyebrows knit together as he lowers himself into his chair. “I mean here. Are you happy here?” You rush to get your words out as he opens his mouth to respond. “I mean I know this isn’t the lifestyle you were used to, nor was it what you expected I just...”

“We could be living in a box on the streets and I would be happy along as you were there Y/N.” A soft smile reaches his eyes as he studies you, eyes flickering from your nose to your ears to your eyes and your lips. “We should eat before this gets cold, I don’t know about you but I’m starving.”

It’s not vain to think this is the best thing you have ever tasted, you tell yourself as the hot cheese hits your tongue, swiftly followed by the tomato and basil sauce. A small moan of appreciation escapes your companions throat, just another small trait of his that barely sees the light of day but every time it does you fall deeper in love with him. “How’s the revision going Sammy?” you inquire once he stops for breath.

“Good exams not for another few weeks so I have plenty of time to finish going over the last two modules. Would you mind testing me a bit in a few days?”

“Of course I don’t mind. Although I do need to do some more composition and need to record it. Do you mind filming me tomorrow before dinner so I can see how the whole thing sounds when digitised?”

“I mean yeah but it’s not like it’s too difficult, it sounds pretty amazing already and that’s without the piano added to the vocals.” You can see the gears clicking in his head as he fashions some white lie, you wait patiently with almost a feeling of excitement alongside your anticipation to see what he comes up with this time. You are the creative one in the relationship but he isn’t half bad when it comes to creating an image with is imagination. “Did I ever tell you that I am classically trained on the grand piano?”

Stifling a laugh, you play along, never before has he tried to step foot in your genre, your territory. “Oh wow, no you never told me. When was this? Where did you train?”

“You remember me saying I took a gap year after high school before staring at Stanford?” You hum as you remember the mystery behind where he went and why. He had told you that it had been a family thing that his brother dragged him on. “Well I went to England for a year and did a crash course at the Royal Academy of Music, I was such a fast learner that I only needed to stay a year before I had mastered all of Beethoven’s symphonies.”

“Any?” You ask, bowing your head as you get up so as to hide the smirk which has begun to make an appearance.

“Any.” He nods in agreement.

Humming thoughtfully to yourself, you begin to clear the table, placing the dirty crockery in the dishwasher you decide to have a little fun with this.

“So you can play Beethoven’s 21st Sonata? I have always loved that piece, it is so intricate and beautiful.” You ask, putting on your best voice of innocence as you link your fingers together. “It would be nice to have someone playing me the music for once.” With a flutter of your eyelashes you know you have him bending to your will.

He chews his lip before responding. “Remind me which one that is then of course I will show you what a highly trained classical pianist is capable of.”

“Babe it’s Waldstein one of his most complicated pieces ever.” With that he picks you up, plonking you into your favourite of the armchairs that face your piano. He tells you to wait there, and cover your eyes so that it is a better surprise.

Your mind wanders back to the conversation with your father. He had been so disgruntled, you would never have guessed that it was not your choice in man that had upset him, but the idea of you growing up and starting your life together in his crappy little apartment that you two had been sharing because it was nearer to campus then yours and neither of you could afford a car. Within an hour he had found you a four bedroom, luxury home in Faxon First, only a 10-minute drive from the university. It was ridiculously bigger than what you needed, with over 9,500 square feet of land for yourselves. It was the stunning pool in the back garden that had you entranced with the place, Sam, being the fitness freak he is, was in complete admiration of the gym, pool and tennis courts. Without batting an eye lid your dad spent nineteen million dollars on buying it alone, refusing to tell you the cost of all the other items he was adding such as a brand new, state of the art, grand piano to go in the living room. It was a massive upgrade from the one-bedroom apartment you had been living out of, despite the disapproval of your parents, and was even a little overwhelming. When you had tried to argue that there was no way you would have time to clean it he waved a hand to silence you, saying that no Y/L/N should ever do their own housework. You moved in a few weeks later to find your new housemaid awaiting your instructions. You and Sam had allowed her to stay in one of the spare rooms, deciding that she should get to live in this excellent home that she was keeping clean. You had grown quite fond of Charlie, and though she very rarely ate with you guys, she had become more a friend then a member of staff. The thing that showed you how much he really accepted Sam into the family though was when he brought Sam a 1967 Chevy Impala, just like the one his brother had inherited of their father.

A loud crash from the master bedroom brought you back to the present. You were almost convinced that you had imagined it when it happened again but before you have a chance to ask what has happened Sam shouts a lightly breathless yet also triumphant “I’m Okay!” down the stairs. His declaration is followed by what sounds like the rolling of thunder, and, if you weren’t mistaken, a cat yowling.

A moment later you hear the soft fall of his feet as he makes his way down the stairs. “Open your eyes Y/N”. He needn’t tell you twice before your head whips round to look at him.

He’s standing on the middle of the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other behind his back. He looks utterly ridiculous in the tailcoat that you bought him for family gatherings, white gloves stretch around his hands and to match he has a white waistcoat and white bowtie on top of one of his white shirts. He has his best Italian shoes on and a….

“Is that a Top-hat?” You demand, despite knowing full well that it was, as you point at the atrocity on his head. Despite this his hair manages to still look majestic as it has been slicked back and tucked behind his ears.

With a wink, Sam tips his hat before robotically descending the rest of the stairs and making his way towards the piano, sharply throwing the tail of his coat in the air as he drops onto the piano stool which is several inches too high for his long legs but he doesn’t seem to care. As your breath catches in your throat with anticipation, wondering how he is going to pull it off this time, he snaps his head in your direction; making intense eye contact as he lifts his hands into the air, letting them hover above the keys. He maintains the deep eye contact as you tuck your legs beneath you and he slams his hands on the keys. The jarring sound makes you wince in discomfort. Somehow he manages to keep a straight face through the entire ordeal, pressing random keys and using the pedals to cause utter chaos.

It is only when you can no longer contain your laughter that he breaks his stoic portrayal. “Don’t let my dramatic entrance fool you – I have no idea what I’m doing” he shrugs as you struggle to form words through your laughter.

“You don’t say” you finally manage to squeeze out.

With a playful smirk he begins to rid himself of his, interesting, attire, it is whilst you are admiring the strong muscles on his back that you realise something. “Babe?” He pauses to look at you, stood on one leg whilst he tackles the other to remove his trousers. “We don’t have a cat...”

Tags: @aiaranradnay , @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid