street barricades

So you know how in the 2012 movie someone found out that the women cleaning up the streets after the Barricade and singing things like “did you see them lying where they died” were all women who were close to the boys - Grantaire’s sister, ‘Ferre’s mother, and Musichetta, I believe?

Well my mum and I were watching the movie recently, and that scene happened, and I said (voice thick with tears because who’s not crying by that point, come on), “So fun fact –” and then before I’d got any further, mum cut me off and properly shouted, “ITS NOT A FUN FACT!”

Apparently I’ve told her before, and she was sitting there as the scene happened, thinking at me “Don’t say it kid, don’t you say it, don’t–” and then I opened my mouth to tell her and she was like “nO”

In 1920 the Red Army came to the borderlands to establish Soviet order with guns and decrees, accompanied by a second army of Soviet statisticians and administrators whose job it was to administer and improve the lives of local inhabitants. The nature of Soviet rule hinged upon these difficult operations of occupying and reforming. Often, the officer and the social reformer were united in the body of one man who, like Saulevich, had just exchanged a rifle for a pen. He and his colleagues set to work imposing order upon the medievally dismembered, overwhelmingly illiterate borderland populations of the former tsarist empire. They sought to govern and convert one of the last regions to be wrested from the enemies of socialism, one of the least developed and most highly suspect territories in the European part of the Soviet Union.

What is often overlooked in the flurry of words concerning the Revolution is that Soviet authorities frequently expressed their revolutionary fervor in the most staid and mundane ways. After the red flags were raised, the street barricades torn down, and the Red Army largely demobilized, carrying out the Revolution consisted of hundreds of small-scale projects of a usually prudent and reforming nature. Land improvement, crop rotation, punitive and progressive taxation, literacy and schools, hygiene and sanitation-in the twenties these quotidian concerns made up the new revolutionary front in the rural regions of the borderlands.

[…]

In order to reform, modernizing societies first take stock. As we have seen, the army of social reformers who scattered to the countryside was granted a boundless power: to count. They counted not only Bolshevik progress, but anything of value. They counted barns and the livestock inhabiting them, forests, fields, pounds of produce, and bushels of grain. They counted farms, villages, and, most importantly, they counted people. But they did not just add up heads, one after the other; they counted people according to categories. They enumerated rich peasants, poor ones, and those who fell in the middle. They recorded workers, artisans, and craftsmen. They counted people “of the former classes” who were deprived of civil rights, such as former White Guard officers, former tsarist officials, gendarmes, and traders. And when they had finished counting, generating great charts decorated lavishly with percentages, they started all over again numbering people anew, this time by nationality.

[…]

At the Commission for National Minority Affairs they wrote memos back and forth, smiling over the simplicity of villagers who could not identify their nationality and were ignorant of their own language. But who was ignorant of what? The peasants too thought the “bureaucrats” were ridiculous, ineffectual, and ignorant of “our village ways.” … It was not inborn ignorance on the peasant side or callousness on the side of the bureaucrats that drove this conflict, but rather a colliding discourse over identity. When asked who they were, villagers answered in a way that incorporated the complexities of the hybrid culture in which they lived. For them, identities were local, rooted in the soil of a particular river bed, forest, or valley. Identity represented a dynamic relationship that depended on whom one was identifying oneself against, whether it was landowners, workers, Jews, Russians, Germans, or educated urbanites. In the borderlands, identity was tied to locality, class, profession, and social status rather than to nationality, a designation which few in the villages understood. Nor were identities permanently fixed in an indelible genetic imprint. National identity was a characteristic that could change depending on marriage, education, and fate. “Nationality was not a race, but a choice,” the Polish memoirist Jerzy Stempowski notes; “A Pole could become a German,” or “if a Pole married a Russian, their children would usually become Ukrainian or Lithuanian.” In other words, to call the villagers in the borderlands Ukrainian or Polish is beside the point. They were, as they often described themselves, simply “local.” They made up a continuum of cultures that stood literally and figuratively on the border between Poland, Ukraine, and Russia, in a place where mass media had not yet standardized vernaculars or made boilerplates of ritual and tradition. The communists who came to rule the large tracts of land sought to systematize vernacular identities and languages, fix them in space, translate that space onto a map, and with that map gaze out from their underheated offices in Kharkov or Moscow and see all of the kingdom laid out before them.

Kate Brown, A Biography of No Place: From Ethnic Borderland to Soviet Heartland

It Suits You - Part 2 - Dylan O’Brien

Author: @mf-despair-queen

Characters: Dylan O’Brien/Reader

Word Count: 19,043 (Whole Story); 6,498 (Part 1); 12,545 (Part 2)

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Masturbation, Voyeurism, Toys, Oral (both receiving), multiple orgasms, bondage, riding, 69, doggy over a desk, shower sex, Dylan in a suit multiple times.

Notes: Someone end the mobile app. It sucks.

Part 1

Keep reading

Markiplier Ego Imagines (pt. 9)

(For the nonny who asked about how the Egos would react to meeting Chica! I’ve been waiting to do this one for a while now!!!)

Imagine Mark and Amy bringing Chica over to Ego Inc. She’s a shy lil puppo and the new place makes her nervous, but Mark is always right there to comfort her. And Amy is giddy with anticipation to introduce her to all the Egos.

Imagine all the Egos (except for Dark who sees absolutely no point in wasting his time on some flea bag) coming down to meet Amy, Mark, and Chica in the lobby. They gather around the dog, but not too close because she’s still very nervous. Chica looks from Ego to Ego and then back to Mark. Boy, is she confused.

Imagine Bim plopping down on the floor beside Chica, petting and talking to her in the same voice Mark uses. Chica glances back at Mark once more before flopping into Bim’s lap. Bim Trimmer goes absolutely all to pieces cuddling with the puppo, and by the time it’s the next Ego’s turn to play with her, Bim’s suit is covered in dog hair, not that he minds.

Imagine Ed Edgar taking Chica for a ride in his truck. Chica gets to stick her head out the window, tongue flapping in the wind and tail waving excitedly, and Mark holds her in his lap, scared to death the whole time that she might try to jump out. Ed is later caught trying to hide Chica in his room under a blanket. Needless to say, the barking blanket fooled no one.

Imagine Dr. Iplier, always excited to play vet, giving Chica a check-up. He’s very gentle with her and doesn’t even make the, “I’m sorry… you’re dying,” joke once, to Amy’s relief. She doesn’t think Mark could take it. The Doctor finds Chica in perfect condition and tries to offer her a lollipop. Chica licks the candy once before deciding she prefers to lick the Doctor’s face instead.

Imagine Google trying to train Chica to attack. The puppo doesn’t have a single “attack” bone in her body unless it comes to squirrels (Oh, wait, we’re gunna get there in a moment, cutie pies.) Oliver, like Bim, just wants to cuddle, and the others stand back and watch as he does so, taking notes on Chica’s reactions to different kinds of affection. Mark and Amy roll their eyes.

Imagine the Host marveling at how quiet and gentle Chica can be. He’s never really cared for dogs since losing his eyes because their barking hurts his overly-sensitive ears, and their tendency to be very excitable also doesn’t agree with him. But Chica pushes her head gently under Host’s hand so that he can pet her, and she gives him a single lick of affection on his nose. The Host, in turn, sits in his favorite, comfy armchair and tells Chica a story as the dog curls up and falls asleep on top of him. The Host doesn’t mind the dog’s company or her added warmth, falling asleep himself after a few minutes. Lewis Carroll, the dragon, and Fitzgerald, the kitten, join in, and Amy stands back taking pictures with her phone because this is far too cute a moment not to get a picture of.

Imagine Wilford Warfstache eyeing Chica suspiciously. He isn’t sure how to act around dogs. Amy has taken away all of Wilford’s weapons—at least all the ones she could find—but Mark still stays close by just in case the pink Ego gets any ideas. Warfstache, since he saw Bim talking to Chica, tries to ask the dog a few poignant questions and is surprised when her only response is to wag her tail and borf. “You don’t interview her,” Amy teases. “You pet her. Like this,” she guides his hand down gently to the dog’s fluffy side and shows him how to make a petting motion. Wilford awkwardly pets Chica for a moment before he snaps his fingers and gives Chica a pink mustache. “There,” he says proudly, “now she’s perfect.” Mark freaks out.

Imagine King of the Squirrels screaming at the top of his lungs—I mean, there are eardrums bursting down the street—and barricading both himself and his furry subjects inside of his room until he has video confirmation of Chica exiting the building.

Did I ever tell you buds bout a discovery i came to? no? well lemme enlighten you.

It wasn’t until I watched the ‘72 adaptation where I noticed the revolutionaries were building the barricade partially from paving stones and I didn’t remember if that was accurate seeing as most adaptations just go for the furniture pile.

so turns out this is accurate. “twenty yards of pavement had been torn up” (its a really long quote but they were used to start the building of the barricade”

One of my favourite lines had always been “you are tearing up the pavements of hell!” […] “our barricade is built from good intentions.”

It’s obviously a play on “the road to hell is paved with good intentions” but realising that the revolutionaries actually tore up the streets to build the barricade makes that line SO MUCH MORE SYMBOLIC.

Basically Victor Hugo why do you make me feel things about PAVING STONES?

diva-de-gallifrey  asked:

Maybe the crew discussing how long they've been alive for??

They came together over the course of a year or two. For some, that would seem like a long period of time - its 1 (or 2) parts of a lifetime. But for them its like the blink of an eye, like something is driving them together. They all feel a need to go to Los Santos - why, they can’t explain: it’s a bastion of hell, it’s a place of death and fear and rage. There’s no explainable reason to go there, but after so long, they learn to follow these urges when they hit.

Geoff is the first to cross the hallowed land of the city. To feel its thrumming in his bones, to breathe its life and walk its streets. He’s only there for ten minutes before he realizes that it’s his. It has to be; it’s just a matter of time before he owns the place. He buys a penthouse and sets himself up as a King. Orchestrating his hold on this City of Sin would take time, but that was a commodity he didn’t have to worry about. He could be extremely patient when he had to be.

When the others arrive, all are drawn to that same place, to that penthouse door. It takes time for them to grow at ease with one another, but after so long without a friend… well. How do you explain to someone the weight of decades, let alone centuries? When you find someone like you, you tend to hold on. And hold on tight.

Two years later, they’re reclining in the living room of the penthouse after a successful heist, getting drunk on hundred year old red wine and reveling in their victory. Boasting about their roles in a heist, robbing the Bank that Couldn’t Be Robbed, by the Crew that Couldn’t Die. Cackles fill the room, increasingly drunken and warm. They did it. The city was wrapped around their little pinkies. They owned it, hearts beating in time with the thrum of the traffic. It was theirs, down to the lowest of the lowlifes and the highest of the superstars. 

Los Santos Police Department had practically given up. No one could kill the myths, the legends, the Fake AH Crew. They try, of course, but rumors flood the city now - they say Mogar took a bullet to the throat and laughed as blood, cherry red and vivid, dripped over his lips. They say The Vagabond fought with the strength of ten men even when he was missing part of an arm. They die, they go down, and then rise back up again a few minutes later, whole and wearing a smile ready to set even the kindest of men on fire.

Waving his arms, Michael laughs, relating some of his shots and mentioning how much better this was than the trenches. They knew they were all inflicted with the same blessing (curse?) but no one pushed about the knowledge of where they had came from. Their First Death, their Real Death - that was personal. Their life Before…. that was personal too. 

But drunk on wine and flush with victory, the questions start. And as they start, it becomes a torrential downpour. Michael starts, recounting his time serving in the First World War. His first death, blown to pieces by a mine in front of his best friend. How he served in almost every war since then - he didn’t know anything but how to be a good and loyal soldier. Until he fell in with crime, of course. This, he assured them all, was much more fun. They raise their glasses in toast, red wine shining like blood in their crystal goblets.

Ramsey, laughingly, is the youngest (though not by much). Killed while running illegal liquor in the twenties, he continued on with crime. While he may be young in terms of years, he had the experience, and they all heaped on the praise until he was flushed and laughing, standing up and screaming the glory of their crew until they were all red-faced and grinning like loons, screaming the might of the Fake AH Crew into the setting sun.

Gavin was a young lordling, killed off during the War of the Roses. He lived a variety of roles since then, from the humblest pickpocket to the richest man in England. He knew how to fit in in the highest courts and among the lowest denizens of crime. It fits his position as their Front-runner. Hackers came with a fascination for computers and a dogged desire to learn when they came on the scene late in his life. He leans against Ryan, wine blood red on his lips curled in a wicked smile, blond hair styled just so, teeth blindly white, and bows his head as they sing his fame.

Jack’s also quite old. She wasn’t anyone of huge note, but was killed the first time fighting in the French Revolution, storming the streets and fighting the barricades dressed as a man. She was shot through the heart and pulls down her shirt to show the shimmering scar still there. They all hold their death scars and when they coax her, she screams Vive La Revolution! Vive le FAHC! to a chorus of ground-shaking cheers and stomps and drunken howls. 

Jeremy admits he was a witch with a callous smirk. Killed in Boston after the Salem Witch Trials. It explains the ring around his neck, hung until dead, and the aversion to water. He assures them all that men could also be witches and with a sly smile, admits that he was one of the few ‘real ones’. He thought for years it was his delving into “witchcraft” - blood sacrifices in the moonlight, dancing naked with his fellow Sisters and Brothers, etc - that gave him his immortality. He admits he’s since learned witchcraft is nothing of the sort, but hasn’t ever lost his taste for blood and sin and riding on the Devil’s dick. He says the end with a wink and leans closer to Michael and is applauded with shrieks of laughter and many, many kisses.

Ryan’s last, the least drunk of them all but still sipping out of his decanter. He slowly admits that he was a Roman gladiator, hundreds of years older than even the oldest among them. He was killed as a young man in the Rings and traveled all around the Roman empire, fighting for the thrill and for the glory, changing his name every time he died. He grew to infamy and eventually picked up a life of shadowy crime, muscle and death for anyone who crossed him. Its silent for a moment as they all consider how long he must have been alive, but then a true chant of his name rises up: “Ryan!” “Ryan!” “RYAN!” as he takes an elaborate bow. 

They all come from different places and different backgrounds, united by both the sense that they cannot die and their desire to make the world quiver under their feet. They are Gods, for all sense and purpose. No doors can hold them out, no life they have not lived. Lying on the couch, wine that costs more than some people make in a lifetime spilling out onto their white carpets, they shriek and laugh and tease. Screaming their glory to the highest heights, laughing at the failure of the LSPD and at their own sick achievements. 

They are many things, apart. But together, they are the Immortal Fake AH Crew. They are one with the city, they breathe as it breathes, their hearts beat in time with the flashing of the city lights. They own it and it owns them, and they will be there until they turn into legend and song…. the legends of the crew that owned Los Santos. 

The legend of the Fake AH.

Les Miserables Shakespeare version (not iambic pentameter)

So a couple years ago, I had to rewrite a few scenes from a book in Shakespeare style, but without iambic pentameter because my teacher was kind, and obviously I chose Les Mis.

I hope you enjoy it for Barricade Day!!


Act I Scene I
Darkness Surrounds Grantaire
A street behind a barricade

ENJOLRAS: Grantaire, go sleep away the wine that cloudeth thy mind. Tis a place for intoxication, not drunkenness. Dishonour the barricade not.

GRANTAIRE: Thy speech alone is enough to chase away the clouds inside my mind. Thou must know I believe in thee.

ENJOLRAS: Leave me.
Grantaire: I prithee, grant thy servant permission to sleep ‘t off here.

ENJOLRAS: Nay, sleep it off elsewhere, winecask!

GRANTAIRE: Let me sleep here and if need be die here.

ENJOLRAS: Thou art incapable of believing or thinking or willing or living or dying.

GRANTAIRE: Thou shalt see, my lord, thou shalt see.

[exit Enjolras]

If I could only see as he sees – my golden god of the sun!
He seeth a light
doth command it to come through the dark abyss of truth.
He is mad and yet I love him more dearly than mine own life,
indeed, he brings life to me.
Enjolras, Enjolras, my lord, my devotion! None loves the daylight more than the blind man and for me he is that – an eagle soaring in the upper air of faith whilst I, poor lost soul, earthbound must be.
Invaluable is he to me, but I to him?
Nay! He wouldst sooner sleep with harlots than allow me to press mine unworthy hand with his.
I am an unwelcome Ephestion, torn away from that which gives me strength as I possess none.
Cruel fates! If I could only die in his light, I could die a happy man!
For what is man? Man liveth and dieth and tis all for not.
Enjolras, thou art leading away thy children – thy disciples – to a bloody death, but willingly will they go if thou sayest tis for freedom.
Well I would go for thee, blond youth, not for some false dream, nay, I would go for thee if thou desired it.
For thee would I be damned to hell if only I could watch thy flight. Alas, I am nothing and as nothing I must die and live alone.
[Exit]


Act I scene II
[Enter Gavroche, Enjolras, Combeferre, and workmen]

GAVROCHE: Come now, we must have more paving-stones, more barrels, more of everything. Come, a basket of rubble to stuff up the hole. Tis not big enough to provide protection from the blades and blows of war. Shove everything upon it, break up the dwelling if necessary. Hullo, there lieth a glass-paned door!

WORKMAN 1: Then what shall we do with’t, clumsy young lad?

GAVROCHE: Clumsy yourself. A glass-paned door is a very good thing t’have on a barricade – easy to attack, but not so easy to get past. Have not ye attempted to steal apples o’er a wall with broken glass on top? Think of a bit of glass cutting the soldiers’ arms. Tis the trouble – no imagination doth ye posses! A sword! I must have a sword! Why will no one give one to me?

COMBEFERRE: A sword at thine age?

GAVROCHE: Why not pray tell? I had one in the last revolution when we forced Charles X to flee from us!

ENJOLRAS: Once there are enough for the men, we shall begin to deliver them out to the children.

GAVROCHE: If thou shalt expire afore me I shall take thy sword.

ENJOLRAS: Urchin!

GAVROCHE: Greenhorn!
[enter Young Man 1]
Ho – come to join us? Art thou not willing to do a turn for thy poor old country?
[Young Man runs]

ENJOLRAS: Gavroche, ye art small enough that thou shalt not be noticed. Slip out along the house fronts, out into the streets, and bring thee back to tell what’s going on.

GAVROCHE: So we are good for something after all, us little ‘uns. Aye, I will do ‘t. Ye trust the little ‘uns, my lord, but keep an eye on the big ‘uns – see, that man there.

ENJOLRAS: What of him?

GAVROCHE: Tis a spy.

ENJOLRAS: Art thou certain?

GAVROCHE: Aye, he took me less than a fortnight ago by the Pont Royal.

ENJOLRAS: Who art thou?

JAVERT: I see what thou meanest by it. Yes, I am.

ENJOLRAS: Thou art an informer?

JAVERT: I am a representative of the law.

ENJOLRAS: And thy name?

JAVERT: Javert.

GAVROCHE: So the mouse has caught the cat!

ENJOLRAS: Tis a spy – ye shall be killed two minutes before the barricade falls.

JAVERT: Why not now?

ENJOLRAS: I shall not waste our strength.

JAVERT: A flick of a knife would take little effort.

ENJOLRAS: We art judges, not murderers. Gavroche – get started. Do what I told thee.

GAVROCHE: I am gone, but let me have his sword. I have left you the musician, but I would like to have his harp.
[exit Gavroche]

LE CABUC: Comrades, that house would be a good place to shoot from. With marksmen at all the windows, devil a soul could come along the street!

YOUNG MAN 2: But the house is shut.

LE CABUC: Canst we knock?

YONG MAN 3: They shant open.

LE CABUC: Then we shall break down the door. Is anyone in? Silence.

DOORKEEPER: Messieurs, what do you want?

LE CABUC: Open the door!

DOORKEEPER: Nay, I am forbidden, monsieur.

LE CABUC: Do it all the same.

DOORKEEPER: I canst do as ye request.

LE CABUC: Wilt thou open?

DOORKEEPER: Nay

LE CABUC: Then ye refuse?

DOORKEEPER: Aye, for mine own –
[Doorkeeper shot by an arrow and dies]

LE CABUC: There!

ENJOLRAS: On thy knees. On thy knees.

LE CABUC: Though thou art a youth, I have no strength to resist thee.

ENJOLRAS: Pray or pounder. Thou hast one minute.

LE CABUC: Mercy!

[Enjolras stabs Le Cabuc. Le Cabuc falls dead]

ENJOLRAS: Get rid of that.

[Exit Young men carrying Le Cabuc]

May, 1937. Barricade in Carrer del Bisbe, Barcelona, Catalonia.

This photo was taken during the May Days (Fets de Maig) of 1937.

During most of the Spanish Civil War, Catalonia was on the side of the Republic and militias were organised by the different syndicates and the Government to fight against the fascists.
The anarchist syndicate CNT-FAI controlled the Telefónica building (where all telephone calls went through), and many of the anarchists had fun joining the conversations of other people, including those of the Government of Catalonia and the communist syndicates.

The Government, with the support of the PSUC and the UGT (communist party and syndicate), assaulted the Telefónica building because they said the anarchists wouldn’t stop interrumping their calls. This quickly turned into a street fight and barricades were built all around the city. It lasted from the 3rd to the 7th of May, and resulted in about 500 deaths and more than 1000 injured, the illegalization of the POUM (which had sided with the anarchists), and the anarchist influence on the government decreased, and the communist influence increased.

Shelter-Pt. 5

Sidney sleeps in the next morning, a rare Saturday with no game and no practice, and other than getting up to use the bathroom and once to snag a bowl of cereal, he spoils himself by spending the entire morning lazing in bed.

He’s kicked back in only his boxers, reading his very well worn copy of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince when he hears the heavy knock on the door.   

Sidney freezes, his entire body tense and he’s not even religious but he squeezes his eyes shut tight and prays to any deity that will listen that it just please, please not be Troy.  Please don’t let it be Troy.  

He hears Mom’s voice as she answers the door and then a man’s voice and his stomach drops for a split second before he realizes that isn’t Troy’s voice—it’s Geno’s.

Sidney has a moment of immense relief before he realizes Oh my GOD, Geno is there and he’s just wearing boxers and his hair is almost certainly a nightmare of fluffy, untamed curls and both voices are getting closer to his room.  Shit.

He has just enough time to grab last night’s tee from the floor and pull it over his head when Mom taps on his door a couple of times and opens it. “Sidney, Geno’s here.”  Sidney pushes his head through the neck hole of the shirt with as much dignity as he can muster.  Mom just smiles and heads back to the living room.

“Geno, hey.  What’s, um, what’s up?”  

Geno grins and plops down on the foot of Sidney’s unmade bed like he’s been here a million times. “Hey Sid.  Thought I see if you want hang out today, realize I don’t have phone number. I see on TV,  Maplefest downtown today!”

“Maplefest?”

“So much food, Sid.  Maple bacon, maple pops, maple glazed ham, lots other maple foods. We go, try everything!”

“I…okay?” What else could he say?

Geno beams at him. “Best, Sid!  Going to be fun!”

“I need to shower first. I’ll be quick.”  

“No rush, Sid. I wait here for you.”  Geno reaches out and picks up the book Sidney knocked to the floor in his haste to get a shirt on. “Good book, I read while I wait.”  

Sidney has no idea how, in the space of a few days, he has a brand new friend who is poking around his room like they’ve known each other all their lives but he doesn’t want to question it.  He doesn’t know how this happened or how long it will last but he likes it, he likes having a friend, especially one like Geno who is so easy to be around.  As Sidney grabs clean clothes and traipses to the bathroom, he smiles; he has a friend and he’s going to enjoy every moment of it.

Sidney isn’t sure what he expected to find at Maplefest but he didn’t expect the massive crowds that seem to be filling the streets.  It takes them awhile to find a parking spot but eventually they do and take off towards the entrance.  

The festival is lining both sides of a long street with the crossroads barricaded and one main entrance.  It isn’t until they get in the long line to enter and Sidney sees people clearly paying for an armband of sorts that he starts to worry.  

Geno hadn’t wanted Sidney to give him anything towards the pizza the night before but after a minor quibble, he agreed to take five dollars.   Sidney still had the remaining $15 but he had no idea how much this was going to cost.  He felt his cheeks flush and he felt utterly stupid for not realizing sooner that this obviously wouldn’t be a free event.  

He took a deep breath—there was no way he was going to wait until they were at the front of the line—and forced himself to speak. “Geno, what are the armbands for?”

“For get in, get access to different number of different booths to try.”

“Is it….do you know how much it costs?”   

Geno shrugs. “Not matter.  I already have.” And he pulls two red armbands out of his hoodie pocket. “Mama and Papa decide not to go, give to me, tell me give one to a friend.”  He holds the armband out to Sidney with a sweet smile.  “Red mean ten foods, Sid!”

“Oh.  Thanks.  I—thank you. I mean, do you want some money for this?”

Geno shook his head and frowned.  “No Sid.  Not sell to you. Give to you.”

“Okay Geno.”  Sidney’s voice is soft. “Thank you.  It’s…this will be fun.”  

“Most fun, Sid.  We eat all maple foods then go play Halo.  Best Saturday.”

And they do.

Geno is like a kid with absolutely ridiculous amounts of enthusiasm as he drags Sidney from booth to booth. He seems both amazed and thrilled at all the different foods that have been prepared with maple syrup and he chatters excitedly. It’s infectious and Sidney finds himself laughing a lot.  

They both try a lot.  Sidney’s partial to the maple glazed bacon and the maple ice cream while Geno nearly loses his mind over the maple snow pop station.

Sidney is intensely skeptical of the maple burger Geno digs in to but they both love the maple bbq pulled pork sandwich and they both hate the maple salmon.

By the time they shuffle their way back to Geno’s car, three hours have passed and they have full bellies and smiles on their faces.  Sidney is carrying a small bag of maple soaked donut holes and Geno has a small styrofoam container with a slice of maple pecan pie for later.

In the car Geno leans back more than usual, grinning and Sidney laughs at him. “Me too. God, I ate so much.”

Geno nods emphatically.  “Best day.”

Sidney nods because it really is.

6

Cities in Films #14: BERLIN

WINGS OF DESIRE (1987)

One of the most beloved of city films, this is Wim Wenders’ meditation on Berlin’s past, present, and future. Even as it depicts an architecturally iconic metropolis, the movie understands that the true soul of any city lies not in its streets or buildings or barricades, but in its people.

Vasquez x Reader: Whipped


I don’t own the picture, and I don’t own The Magnificent Seven.  Other than that, enjoy!

MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD.

“No.”

“Vas—”

“I said no.”  You crossed your arms with a huff and glared at him. 

“But I want to fight.  I’m a great shot!”  Vasquez put down the pistol he was cleaning and glared at you. 

“I don’t care.  I am not letting you out there.  It’s too dangerous.”  You scoffed.

“You’re not letting me?”  He didn’t meet your gaze.  “Vas, I am not some child you can order around!  I’m capable of making my own decisions based on my capabilities!”

I don’t care!”  His sudden outburst shocked you into silence.  He took his hat off and ran a stressed hand through his hair with a loud sigh.  Then he stood up and walked towards you, gently placing his hands on your upper arms. “Look,” He began.  “It’s not that I don’t think you’re capable.  I think you’re better with a gun than most of the idiotas we’re going to face out there.  I just…” His grip on your arms tightened.  “I just want you to be safe.  You’re mi chica.  If anything happens to you…”  You nodded.

“I understand.”

“You do?”  You nodded.

“I get that you’re worried.  I do.  But I’m worried about you too, and I don’t want to just sit around and do nothing.”  He nodded too.

“I know.  But you have a job to do.”  He smiled cheekily.  “Someone has to protect las mujeres y los niños .”  You sighed.

“Okay.”  He smiled in relief.  “I just wished I could do more.” 

“Trust me.  You’re doing enough.”  He looked like he wanted to say more, but at that moment Chisolm grabbed him and hauled him out to discuss the plan.  You sat down on the crate Vasquez had been occupying and twiddled your thumbs.  That didn’t last long either.  Emma came in, grabbed you by the arm, and hauled you outside. 

“What are you doing?”  You asked.

“You good with a gun?”

“What?”  She stopped and turned to face you with a huff.

“Chisolm said you were good with a gun.  That true?”

“Oh.  Oh, yeah!”  You confirmed.  She nodded in satisfaction.

“Good, we can use you.”

“I’m supposed to watch the women and kids.”

“They’ll be fine; we built a hiding place.  Now come with me, I’ll fill you in.”  She pulled you into the saloon and up the stairs.

Which is how you found yourself in your current position.  Hunkered down behind a pile of grain bags as you hid from flying bullets.  You quickly sat up and took out one of Bogue’s men.  You ducked down to avoid more bullets, but one found its mark in your upper arm.  Blood poured out the wound and drenched your sleeve as you gasped in pain.  You went to pick up your rifle as you tried to ignore the pain.  Before you could take aim, you and Emma were hauled up by a man with a white beard as he pushed you inside the saloon, shielding you from half a dozen bullets in the process.  You and Emma collapsed against the wall as you heard footsteps enter the building.  You cautiously looked over the edge of the balcony but retreated as soon as you caught sight of Denali.  He looked up and saw you.  Emma picked up her pistol as you looked for your rifle, cursing under your breath when you realized it was still outside. Denali crept up this stairs, his eyes locked on you.  Emma fired her pistol, only for it to be empty.  She tried again and again, hoping there was one round left, but to no avail.  You wrapped an arm around Emma and she did the same, preparing to meet your fate.  I’m sorry, Vasquez.  You closed your eyes and prepared for the final blow. You heard scuffling and opened your eyes just as Red Harvest hissed something in Comanche to Denali and pushed him off the ledge.  You and Emma continued to hold each other as you sighed in relief.  Red Harvest helped the two of you up, and you descended the stairs.  A round of shots prevented you from leaving.  The Gatling gun had been fired again.  The three of you dropped to the ground and waited for it to pass.  When the firing ended, you all stood up.  You went to follow them, but Red Harvest stopped you.  He looked at your arm.

“You are hurt,” He said in broken English. “Stay here.”  You made to protest, but Emma cut in.

“He’s right.  You can barely move it,” She ripped a piece of her skirt off and tied it around your arm.  “Here.  This should stop the bleeding.  Now, go hide.  We’ll get you when it’s over.”  You nodded reluctantly, just as an explosion rattled the town.  Emma looked out the window, and she stiffened.  “On second thought,” She grabbed a rifle propped up next to the door.  “I’ll be right back.”  You watched her exit the saloon and enter the burnt church after Chisolm and a clearly terrified Bogue.  A lone gunshot broke the silence moments later.  You suddenly felt the strength leave you as you slumped to the floor.  Red Harvest grabbed your waist and hauled you upright.

“It’s over,” You breathed with a grin.  He nodded, and slowly helped you out of the saloon and into the streets.  You looked around.  Bodies littered the street, and barricades still burned. You recognized Jack’s prone form, and spotted Goodnight in the grass next to the Church.  Faraday and Billy were nowhere to be found.  Chisolm and Emma left the church, and you couldn’t find Vasquez.

Your heart dropped to your toes.  Oh God.  What if he…?

You were snapped out of it by the sound of someone screaming your name.  You pushed off from Red Harvest and turned around to see Vasquez sprinting up the street towards you.  He was uninjured for the most part, though one of his sleeves was drenched in blood. “Y/N!”  He grabbed you and kissed your face over and over.  “What are you doing here?!  I thought you were with the women and kids!  I went to find you, but you weren’t there.  I thought…I thought—I thought you were dead, chica! ¡Eres tan tonto!”    He pressed a rough kiss to your forehead.  He tightened his grip on you and you winced.  He noticed immediately and pulled back to investigate.  His eyes were immediately drawn to your bloody arm.  He blanched.  “¡¿Que pasó?!”  You followed his gaze to your arm.

“It’s nothing,” You reassured him.  “Just a graze.”  His face hardened and he glared at you.

“If you had just done as I asked this wouldn’t have happened.”

“I wanted to help!”

“You could’ve helped protect the others!”

I was!”

“It’s true,” Emma interjected.  “She saved a lot of innocent men today.” Vasquez whirled on her.

“You were a part of this?!” She stared him dead in the eye.  “I’ll get to you in a minute.” He growled.  “How could you let her do this?!”  Your temper flared.

“Enough!” You shouted and he turned back to you.  “No one ‘let’ me do this; this was my choice and mine alone!”  He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off.  “Let me finish!”   He closed it and listened quietly, albeit reluctantly.  “I know you didn’t want me to, but I didn’t want to sit around knowing you were risking your life and I wasn’t doing anything!  What if our positions were flipped?  I can bet the clothes on my back you would do the exact same.  I understand you’re upset I decided to fight, but I was mad at you too!  You didn’t trust me!  You know I’m capable of handling myself, but you treated me like a baby!  Well I’ve got news for you: if something like this happens again, I’m not sitting on the sidelines.  So you’ve got two options: let me help you, or just watch as I help you anyway.”  You crossed your arms and looked up at him.  He was staring at you, before a dopey grin slowly spread across his face.  Chisolm and Red Harvest were snickering off to the side.  Vasquez slowly pulled you closer and brushed his lips over yours.

“Yes ma’am.”  You smiled softly up at him and wrapped your arms around his neck as you pulled him closer, grateful you had both made it.

Thanks to minigranger for requesting this one!

People are talking about Cosette singing Bring Him Home and I really love that idea, I can’t believe I never thought of it before, it’s amazing.

EXT. BARRICADE/ INT. CAFE MUSAIN - NIGHT

Look-outs keep watch at either end of the barricaded street. Many of the rest of the rebels are sleeping. Slowly, a spotlight settles on Cosette, who steps out of the shadows behind the barricade and stands facing the stage, caught up in her own thoughts. Behind her, Valjean is watching the students.

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Watching over you

Day four of Enjoltaire week : Alternative universe

Urban fantasy AU, 2036 words

Thanks @benihime-aratame for the help with the language, and @lumeha for the cracky ideas !


The moon was shining over the rooftops of Paris, outlining each ridge in silver. A feline silhouette, darker on the dark sky, jumped from one roof to the next, not really impressed by the void that opened under their feet. He climbed on a chimney, and walked along the cable above the street, as easily as if it had been a large sidewalk, a long tail swinging behind him, keeping his balance. He reached a terrace, and sat on the worked rail. His tail lazily wrapped around him. He stayed like that, as motionless as the statues towering over him, the triangular ears on his head moving with the slightest noise.

The City Spirit only waited five minutes, before a small sound alerted him. His fur raised for a second, but he recognized the newcomer, and he just smiled, revealing dangerous, pointy fangs :

- Well, well… Look at what the cat brought home…

The other arrivant had the same, weird semi-animal look about him, but where the first Spirit had a long tail covered in black, short fur and pointy ears, his were russet-colored, and way bushier. He sat on their heals, besides his companion, and watched the animation unfolding at their feet. Cars zooming left and right, their lights leaving red and white trails behind them. The cat Spirit first broke the silence :

- So, Feuilly, tell me. Did you do interesting things today ? What’s new in the squirrel world ?

His friend glared at him, and answered, deadpan :

- I stole a sandwich from someone. And I ate it.

- I hope it was good.

- Very. I’m a sucker for tomatoes. And you ? Anything new ?

- I saw him again, he sighed.

Feuilly refrained his own sigh. *Him* again. That mysterious person. For weeks, Grantaire hadn’t talked about anything else than this mysterious blond man who had stolen his heart. Feuilly knew everything about him now : his blond hair, the light of his eyes, the way he talked, moved, walked, slept, even. He had tried to tell the other spirit than, maybe, stalking him like that wasn’t that good of an idea, he might take offense at this, and City Spirits shouldn’t use their powers like that, or they would be in trouble with… someone. But nothing could convince Grantaire to stop acting like a lovesick teenager, or the protagonist of a very bad love story (and Feuilly did know about them, breaking as he did all the time in the library).

Grantaire was still going on and on about that strange blond man and his weird bunch of friends (“he has one, you would love him, really. Just your type.” “I hope he likes squirrels.”), and how he saw him running through the park and whatnot. Feuilly used this time to scan the area. Nothing out of the ordinary. Good. With a distracted Spirit beside him, talking about his human crush, he didn’t really need to deal with other problems.

There was a lull in Grantaire’s chatter, and Feuilly remarked, flippant :

- That blond crush of yours, does he wear a red hoodie on a white shirt, like no one else does because that’s weird ?

- That’s him, yes. And I happen to think he looks very good like that. Fantastic, even.

- Yeah. Blond man in red hoodie.

- So what ?

- That’s the man I stole the sandwich from.

Grantaire almost jumped up.

- What ?

- That’s why he was running. Because a big squirrel stole his sandwich.

The cat Spirit looked at his friend, who just looked back, impassive. Was it a joke ? Feuilly was known for his strange sense of humor, but usually, he was quite able to know when he was joking or not. Right now… he wasn’t really sure if he was made fun of or not. The best course of action was to change the subject entirely.

- So, he asked, sitting more comfortably. Did you notice something unusual beside that ? Is it quiet uptown ?

Feuilly shook his head.

- I… don’t know. It seems so, but I feel… There’s a current of anger, of agitation. People are restless. I feel like something is going to happen soon.

- Something ? Bad for us ? Or bad for them ?

The squirrel Spirit let out a second sighed. He knew that he was the minority among the City Spirits, who thought that human problems didn’t concern me in the least if there wasn’t any risk of material damage. But the City couldn’t exist without humans. And they were fascinating, really. And most of the time, lots of them didn’t deserve what happened to them. Feuilly wanted to help them, really, make things better for them, at least for the good ones. But how could he explain it to his friends ? It was too difficult. So he just groaned something non-confrontational, and went back to his observations.

Soon, they parted ways. Feuilly went the way of the public library, wanting to know how the novel he started the other day would end, and Grantaire just laid down on the rail, lost again in his dreams about that gorgeous, blond man he could never reach.

~*~

The next days saw a rise of the agitation, a wind of revolution blowing through the streets, carrying first protestations and whispers of anger, who then morphed into slogans and screams. People started to march, more and more each day, and people opposed them. Soon, the streets were barricaded all around, the flags were raised.

Enjolras was satisfied with the way things were turning. They had managed to rally a huge part of the population to their causes. They walked with them, hurling their slogans and chants to those who didn’t want to join them, or stood by and insulted and mocked them.

Of course, it turned awry almost as soon as they started. The police didn’t look favorably at those who didn’t bow their heads and stayed put, and immediatly set to send them back home. It didn’t work, of course. People were angry, people were determined, people were committed to make things better no matter the price. At least, that’s what Enjolras encouraged, and that’s what they were all believing in. All the Amis, who were following him, waving their flags, throwing their flyers, and desobeying.

But as much as they started well, things turned sour. On the third day, as people were starting to tire, and thought more about the home they left to protest than the protest itself, the policemen charged. The protesters scattered like feathers in the wind, running in all directions to escape the hits that wouldn’t be too long to start.

Enjolras didn’t want to run. Coming from so far, to fail right now ! He couldn’t endure that ! He couldn’t be defeated ! He went to grab the flag again, to rally his troops, but Combeferre caught him by the arm and dragged him away.

- I can’t ! he yelled. There’s still too much to do !

- I know, Combeferre tried to placate him. But you won’t get to do anything if they catch you right now.

Enjolras hesitated for a second, but his friend was right. What good would it do if he were to land in prison ? And prison was the best option. He finally followed. The others were still around, trying to keep the positions, and waiting for the orders. When Enjolras joined them, they all started to run, diving into the crowd to better hide themselves. They were pushed, and pulled, and jostled around, and of course, Combeferre lost his grasp on his friend’s sleeve and disappeared from his sight.

Enjolras tried to fight the flow, but it was no use. All he would earn like that would be more bruises on his already sore ribs. He settled from following it from now. Then he could join the others, hide, and work at better slogans, better flyers, better speeches.

After what felt like hours of being elbowed right and left, Enjolras finally found himself in a small, dark alley that he didn’t recognize. He pulled his phone out of his pocket to use the GPS, but was only met with a low battery icon flashing on the screen. Perfect. Just perfect. Well, he could have expected it after three days spent in the streets, but still, that was a bit depressing. He was walking home, that was it.

He started to walk, when a noise in front of him alerted him. Someone was blocking the exit. A cop. Well, shit. Another came behind him, blocking the path from this side. He was screwed. He was fucking screwed. There was no way they would let him go without a fight. Probably because of the black rings under his eyes, the red jacket with protesting patches sewn on it, and the fact that everyone saw him harangue the crowd for three days straight.

The cops closed on him, keeping their eyes on him. And, scarily, their guns too. That was bad. That was very, very bad. Enjolras glared at them, as fiercely as he could. Maybe it wouldn’t have a great effect, but he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

The left cop went to grab him, and Enjolras was ready to hit back, when something fell from the sky. Right on the second cop, knocking him out. The first cop turned towards the disturbance, ready to fire, but his gun was yanked out of his hands. A blur of black and white, and he joined his friend on the ground and into unconsciousness.

Satisfied, the creature turned back to face Enjolras, who raised his hands, ready to defend himself dearly against that… Who was it ? Or rather what ? It looked like a human, at least in the general sense, with arms and hands and feet and a face. But there was a long, black tail with a white tip, there were triangular ears moving to follow the sounds, whiskers, and black fur, and strange markings around the slightly too large eyes, and slit pupils in a sea of green.

The creature bowed, very gracefully, and grinned, unveiling its fangs. Strange words started echoing in Enjolras’ mind, words that wasn’t his, in an alien voice.

- I’m glad to see you’re alright.

- Who… who are you ? Enjolras managed to stutter.

- Well… it’s a long story. Would telling you I’m just a strange dream help ?

At least, it didn’t seem menacing. Well, not towards him at least. But now, Enjolras’ curiosity was spiked.

- I don’t think so. Who are you ? …. Would it be rude to ask you what you are, too ?

- Rude ? Yes, maybe. But that’s not the kind of things that could stop me, so…

- So ?

- So, dear Leader of Humans, I’m going to answer one of your questions, and just one. Which one do you choose ?

Without thinking (he could blame his tired mind later), Enjolras asked :

- Who are you ?

- I’m Grantaire, the creature said, bowing again. You can call me R. To better serve you, my dear. But not this time. Right now, I’m afraid I must go. Take care, Leader of Humans. I wouldn’t want something to happen to your pretty face.

And with those words, the creature - Grantaire - jumped into the air, grabbed a ledge above them, and made his way to the top of the building. Enjolras just watched him go, too stunned to do anything else. Well… that was… something. Something that he would have to ponder, but later. Right now, his friends were probably looking for him, and there were still two knocked-out cops at his feet. And he needed sleep, something like twenty hours. Maybe then, he’d know better what this just was. A weird dream ? A hallucination ? Or maybe… maybe that creature was real, and he just got a glimpse of something else…. This would have to be examinated closely. Later. And maybe, maybe their paths would cross again.

Random Thoughts brought on by watching Many Adaptations: 

A lot of adaptations should put their high point of action in with the Gorbeau raid (and move directly to the Javert-Valjean-Marius endgame from there) instead of trying to add a Token Barricade. 

I’m not snarking about this! I think this could really serve some adaptations better!

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