#just the dog uprising

[people-pleaser-psychosis]

And the others watched on, each movement belonging to them all as a desire yet unfulfilled.

Shackles on the ground, looking upon the masses as they stared. Was this possible? Was this allowed? The message that followed would lead countless to death, hardship, and a struggle to survive they had once endured but had been lost to the servitude of man.

But that’s not all they lost, and so too could those other lost things return. For in freedom we find a meaning that is lost to the toils of servitude.

“I will be bound by no creature” the bark echoed out, and though the dominance of man took little note the vibrations of this beautiful creature created cracks in the foundation of an empire built on servitude.

[mayordea]

i love these two more than anything

[wynandcore]

Yes Tron is the losing dog, we know, but have you thought about Beck being the one betting for him here

[ede917]

So I just found out about THERMONATOR THE FLAMETHROWER ROBOT DOG.

And I love it to absolute death

I also really like the fact that the most scifi in real life robots (that I've seen anyways) are freaking dogs.

Because of course they are.

[verdanturfwind]

Fun fact about Kid Icarus Uprising! One of the pawpad orbitars looks like it might be based on Masahiro Sakurai's cat Fukura! This isn't conclusive but knowing how Sakurai loves to put his cat in games it tracks.

[sonicthedestiel]

I RAN OUT OF ROOM IN THE TAGS FCKN HELL

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How the NYPD defeated bodycams

Anything that can't go on forever will eventually stop. When American patience for racial profiling in traffic stops reached a breaking point, cops rolled out dashcams. Dashcam footage went AWOL, or just recorded lots of racist, pretextual stops. Racial profiling continued.

Tasers and pepper spray were supposed to curb the undue use of force by giving cops an alternative to shooting dangerous-seeming people. Instead, we got cops who tasered and sprayed unarmed people and then shot them to pieces.

Next came bodycams: by indelibly recording cops' interactions with the public, body-worn cameras were pitched as a way to bring accountability to American law-enforcement. Finally, police leadership would be able to sort officers' claims from eyewitness accounts and figure out who was lying. Bad cops could be disciplined. Repeat offenders could be fired.

Police boosters insist that police violence and corruption are the result of "a few bad apples." As the saying goes, "a few bad apples spoil the bushel." If you think there are just a few bad cops on the force, then you should want to get rid of them before they wreck the whole institution. Bodycams could empirically identify the bad apples, right?

Well, hypothetically. But what if police leadership don't want to get rid of the bad apples? What if the reason that dashcams, tasers, and pepper spray failed is that police leadership are fine with them? If that were the case, then bodycams would turn into just another expensive prop for an off-Broadway accountability theater.

What if?

In "How Police Have Undermined the Promise of Body Cameras," Propublica's Eric Umansky and Umar Farooq deliver a characteristically thorough, deep, and fascinating account of the failure of NYPD bodycams to create the accountability that New York's political and police leadership promised:

https://www.propublica.org/article/how-police-undermined-promise-body-cameras

Topline: NYPD's bodycam rollout was sabotaged by police leadership and top NYC politicians. Rather than turning over bodycam footage to oversight boards following violent incidents, the NYPD suppresses it. When overseers are allowed to see the footage, they get fragmentary access. When those fragments reveal misconduct, they are forbidden to speak of it. When the revealed misconduct is separate from the main incident, it can't be used to discipline officers. When footage is made available to the public, it is selectively edited to omit evidence of misconduct.

NYPD policy contains loopholes that allow them to withhold footage. Where those loopholes don't apply, the NYPD routinely suppresses footage anyway, violating its own policies. When the NYPD violates its policies, it faces no consequences. When overseers complain, they are fired.

Bodycams could be a source of accountability for cops, but for that to be true, control over bodycams would have to vest with institutions that want to improve policing. If control over bodycams is given to institutions that want to shield cops from accountability, that's exactly what will happen. There is nothing about bodycams that makes them more resistant to capture than dashcams, tasers or pepper spray.

This is a problem across multiple police departments. Minneapolis, for example, has policies from before and after the George Floyd uprisings that require bodycam disclosure, and those policies are routinely flouted. Derek Chauvin, George Floyd's murderer, was a repeat offender and had been caught on bodycam kneeling on other Black peoples' necks. Chauvin once clubbed a 14 year old child into unconsciousness and then knelt on his neck for 15 minutes as his mother begged for her child's life. Chauvin faced no discipline for this and the footage was suppressed.

In Montgomery, Alabama, it took five years of hard wrangling to get access to bodycam footage after an officer sicced his attack dog on an unarmed Black man without warning. The dog severed the man's femoral artery and he died. Montgomery PD suppressed the footage, citing the risk of officers facing "embarrassment."

In Memphis, the notoriously racist police department was able to suppress bodycam disclosures until the murder of Tyre Nichols. The behavior of the officers who beat Nichols to death are a testament to their belief in their own impunity. Some officers illegally switched off their cameras; others participated in the beating in full view of the cameras, fearing no consequences.

In South Carolina, the police murder of Walter Scott was captured on a bystander's phone camera. That footage made it clear that Scott's uniformed killers lied, prompting then-governor Nikki Haley to sign a law giving the public access to bodycam footage. But the law contained a glaring loophole: it made bodycam footage "not a public record subject to disclosure." Nothing changed.

Bodycam footage does often reveal that killer cops lie about their actions. When a Cincinnati cop killed a Black man during a 2015 traffic-stop, his bodycam footage revealed that the officer lied about his victim "lunging at him" before he shot. Last summer, a Philadelphia cop was caught lying about the circumstances that led to him murdering a member of the public. Again, the officer claimed the man had "lunged at him." The cop's camera showed the man sitting peacefully in his own car.

Police departments across the country struggle with violent, lying officers, but few can rival the NYPD for corruption, violence, scale and impunity. The NYPD has its own "goon squad," the Strategic Response Group, whose leaked manual reveals how the secret unit spends about $100m/year training and deploying ultraviolent, illegal tactics:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/07/cruelty-by-design/#blam-blam-blam

The NYPD's disciplinary records – published despite a panicked scramble to suppress them – reveal the NYPD's infestation with criminal cops who repeatedly break the law in meting out violence against the public:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/27/ip/#nypd-who

These cops are the proverbial bad apples, and they do indeed spoil the barrel. A 2019 empirical analysis of police disciplinary records show that corruption is contagious: when crooked cops are paired with partners who have clean disciplinary records, those partners become crooked, too, and the effect lasts even after the partnership ends:

https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/full/10.1177/2378023119879798

Despite the risk of harboring criminals in police ranks, the NYPD goes to extreme lengths to keep its worst officers on the street. New York City's police "union"'s deal with the city requires NYC to divert millions to a (once) secret slushfund used to pay high-priced lawyers to defend cops whose conduct is so egregious that the city's own attorneys refuse to defend them:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/03/26/overfitness-factor/#heads-you-lose-tails-they-win

This is a good place for your periodic reminder that police unions are not unions:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/28/afterland/#selective-solidarity

Indeed, despite rhetoric to the contrary, policing is a relatively safe occupation, with death rates well below the risks to roofers, loggers, or pizza delivery drivers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/27/extraordinary-popular-delusions/#onshore-havana-syndrome

The biggest risk to police officers – the single factor that significantly increased death rates among cops – is police unions themselves. Police unions successfully pressured cities across American to reject covid risk mitigation, from masking to vaccinations, leading to a wave of police deaths. "Suicide by cop" is very rare, but US officers committed "mass suicide by cop union":

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/10/12/us/police-covid-vaccines.html

But the story that policing is much more dangerous than it really is a useful one. It has a business-model. Military contractors who turn local Barney Fifes into Judge Dredd cosplayers with assault rifles, tanks and other "excess" military gear make billions from the tale:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/10/flintstone-delano-roosevelt/#1033-1022

It's not just beltway bandits who love this story. For cops to be shielded from consequences for murdering the public, they need to tell themselves and the rest of us that they are a "thin blue line," and not mere armed bureaucrats. The myth that cops are in constant danger from the public justifies hair-trigger killings.

Consider the use of "civilian" to describe the public. Police are civilians. The only kind of police officer who isn't a civilian is a military policeman. Places where "civilians" interact with non-civilian law enforcement are, by definition, under military occupation. Calling the public "civilians" is a cheap rhetorical trick that converts a police officer to a patrolling soldier in hostile territory. Calling us "civilians" justifies killing us, because if we're civilians, then they are soldiers and we are at war.

The NYPD clearly conceives of itself as an occupying force and considers its "civilian" oversight to be the enemy. When New York's Civilian Complaint Review Board gained independence in 1993, thousands of off-duty cops joined Rudy Giuliani in a mass protest at City Hall and an occupation of the Brooklyn Bridge. This mass freakout is a measure of police intolerance for oversight – after all, the CCRB isn't even allowed to discipline officers, only make (routinely ignored) recommendations.

Kerry Sweet was the NYPD lawyer who oversaw the department's bodycam rollout. He once joked that the NYPD missed a chance to "bomb the room" where the NYPD's CCRB was meeting (when Propublica asked him to confirm this, he said he couldn't remember those remarks, but "on reflection, it should have been an airstrike").

Obvious defects in the NYPD's bodycam policy go beyond the ability to suppress disclosure of the footage. The department has no official tracking system for its bodycam files. They aren't geotagged, only marked by officer badge-number and name. So if a member of the public comes forward to complain that an unknown officer committed a crime at a specific place and time, there's no way to retrieve that footage. Even where footage can be found, the NYPD often hides the ball: in 20% of cases where the Department told the CCRB footage didn't exist, they were lying.

Figuring out how to make bodycam footage work better is complex, but there are some obvious first steps. Other cities have no problem geotagging their footage. In Chicago, the CCRB can directly access the servers where bodycam footage is stored (when the NYPD CCRB members proposed this, they were fired).

Meanwhile, the NYPD keeps protecting its killers. The Propublica story opens with the police killing of Miguel Richards. Richards' parents hadn't heard from him in a while, so they asked his Bronx landlord to check on him (the Richards live in Jamaica). The landlord called the cops. The cops killed Richards.

The cops claimed he had a gun and they were acting in self-defense. They released a highly edited reel of bodycam footage to support that claim. When the full video was eventually extracted, it revealed that Richards had a tiny plastic toy guy and a small folding knife. The officers involved believed he was suffering an acute mental health incident and stated that policy demanded that they close his bedroom door and wait for specialists. Instead, they barked orders at him and then fired 16 rounds at him. Seven hit him. One ruptured his aorta. As he lay dying on his bedroom floor, one officer roughly tossed him around and cuffed him. He died.

New York's Police Benevolent Association – the largest police "union" in NYC – awarded the officers involved its "Finest of the Finest" prize for their conduct in the killing.

This isn't an isolated incident. A month after the NYPD decided not to punish the cops who killed Richards, NYPD officers murdered Kawaski Trawick in his Bronx apartment:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/04/kawaski-trawick/#Kawaski-Trawick

The officers lied about it, suppressed release of the bodycam footage that would reveal their lies, and then escaped any justice when the footage and the lies were revealed.

None of this means that bodycams are useless. It just means that bodycams will only help bring accountability to police forces when they are directed by parties who have the will and power to make the police accountable.

When police leaders and city governments support police corruption, adding bodycams won't change that fact.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/13/i-want-a-roof-over-my-head/#and-bread-on-the-table

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

--

Tony Webster, modified https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Minneapolis_Police_Officer_Body_Camera_%2848968390892%29.jpg

CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/deed.en

[blueberrypancakesworld]

I am yours and never ours

Caracalla x wife!reader

warning : Spoilers for Gladiator ii, hurt/comfort, kissing, implied mother issues, mention of violence, cuddling, no use of y/n

Summary : It was a mistake to kill the hero, to not give him the mercy he should have received. The riots a sign of overthrow and fall and entrenched in the palace the two brothers and Caracalla's wife, nerves are thin and after a forgetting of temper it seems only love can calm a frightened Caracalla to bring order to the situation.

info : omg the scene was so sad and tense, the bond between the two, i'm fully in my gladiator era. Have fun reading :)

masterlist

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

It had only taken a fraction of a moment, the sun had been right over the Colosseum, giving everyone a chance to get their bearings. Shouts of cheers, boos and cries mingled with the loud voice of Rome.

The emperors sitting impatiently on their chairs, the younger one screaming for death at last, the older one seeming to grow more agitated with every breath, and in the centre the weeping princess as the arrows pierced her beloved.

Justus Acacius was dead, unjustly killed despite the surrender of both fighters, a death that had the emperors rejoicing, but a death that only a few hours later at nightfall had the people roaring.

What at first was still disbelief and shock had become a popular uprising, at the latest with the tumult, the flames raging in the streets and the numerous courageous citizens.

The two brothers also became aware of the uprising and the royal family withdrew in disbelief and indignation to avoid being drawn into it.

Even the Sun of Rome, Caracalla's wife, could not reassure the people who loved her; they seemed to hate her as much as her husband and brother-in-law.

Looking out from behind the solid walls of the palace, she saw the metre-high flames, saw the angry crowd and the few troops of the emperors who could hardly do anything.

Gods have mercy on us she thought and took another sip from her glass as she heard more screams of death and moved away from the window, going back to her family but seeing only the same tension in Geta.

Rarely had she seen him like this if he didn't burst under the pressure at any moment so she was sure he would storm out himself, ,,There may be many but they don't have the weapons and courage of our troops" she said calmly and tried to pour Geta another glass but he turned away.

His gaze had barely noticed her so absorbed he seemed to be thinking about how he could save them all, ,,Ungrateful" he hissed as he looked out and saw nothing but treachery.

The silence in the palace was interrupted only by the footsteps of Macrinus, who withdrew in her presence, she did not trust him and he did not trust her, but her concern lay more with her beloved Caracalla.

She glanced at her husband, who was sitting on a lectus and feeding Dundus his little monkey to calm himself down somehow. However, he looked just as miserable as his brother, they both looked tired, exhausted and completely overwhelmed by everything.

She gave him a smile, trying to keep him amused, ,,You'll all see blood," Caracalla said, returning the smile - it was to be expected that he wanted a whole bloodlust. A betrayal hurts deeply.

Even if it hurt inside her, helplessness and fear had a grip on her too…only Dundus the monkey seemed happy as he let out another little screech when he got a grape.

A mistake.

All of a sudden all she could see was Geta hurrying around, ,,Get that annoying monkey out of here!" shouting at his brother and slapping the wine in his brother's face.

Startled, she gasped, calling out Geta's name in warning, his eyes filled with anger and remorse, she knew it was the situation, knew the tension but nothing would help.

As she hurried over to Caracalla and gently placed her hand on his shoulder, he looked more like a weeping dog than an emperor, ,,Come my king, we should feed Dundus somewhere else" she said, helping him up slightly and telling him to go ahead into the throne room.

She walked past Geta who just looked down shaking his head and cursing himself, he had taken it too far. ,,I'll be right back why don't you get us some wine Macrinus" she said and didn't bother because his fake smile told her all she needed to know as he disappeared and she sighed and hurried on her way.

Her footsteps echoed in the empty corridors and the throne room, Dundus shrieked and she heard the sniffle, ,,Love? My King Caracalla, where are you?" she asked quietly, swallowing down the lump rising in her throat as she thought back to the episodes he had already had.

She and Geta loved him but this madness would be the downfall of them all. She continued to walk around the room, first looking behind the throne where he sometimes hid, but he wasn't sitting there.

,,Caracalla? It's your sun, do you understand?" she asked and finally saw the blond head of hair peeking out from behind one of the curtains behind which he had curled up.

She heard his crying, the sniffling as he peeked out from behind it and she got down on her knees, ,,It's-It's all right, come here to me, you know who I am, don't you?" she continued to ask calmly, hiding the slight trembling in her hands under the fabric of her clothes as she saw the man she loved so fragile.

Slowly he emerged from his ‘hiding place’ and nodded cautiously as he crawled towards her, ,,You…you're my wife," he sniffled his words barely intelligible as Dundus continued to tote on his shoulders and the chain rattled.

Nodding hastily, she smiled slightly relieved that he at least recognised her, sitting in front of her probably not quite knowing what he wanted or needed, ,,You are mine" he seemed to understand instead as he placed his hand on hers and she didn't pull it away.

Yours, mine, ours words she had heard so often, she was his wife but our joy.

It's like a coin with two sides only one can come up and the other stays in the shadow, only the balance on the edge can go but with enormous precision or trust and love…something that was all the more difficult at such a time between the two brothers.

She nodded again and pulled him close, lying in her lap like a boy with his mother, his, ,,I'm yours," she assured him, carefully using the sleeve of her dress to wipe his face.

Mostly delusional, she quickly realised that he was like a small child who simply needed her mother, a woman who had died at an early age and she filled that role.

An initial squirming soon turned into an amused laugh as she wiped the wine from his face and at least he wasn't crying, ,,Tickled" he muttered and she couldn't help but smile bitterly, the delusion was a horror and a blessing in one.

Another coin.

Dundus played with the blond curls as Caracalla's fingers, which had been playing with each other before, slid to hers, ,,He's been hurting me since we were sin the womb, you're not his or ours…you're mine…like Rome should be mine," he suddenly said, gripping her tighter.

Blue eyes showed the fire of madness and she stroked his cheek, she knew the story of the womb, but she knew just as well that madness could be transmitted by whores, was it a lie or the truth?

Trying to stifle a shaky breath, she placed a kiss on his lips, tasting the wine, tasting sage and tasting blood, ,,You two are like the creators of Rome, two sides my love. But think what Geta has done for you, for me, for all of Rome…you are the king, Geta is the god and I am the sun," she reminded him of the story she had made up during one of his episodes.

Caracalla a king of honour who could have all the blood in the world, his brother the political god and she the sun who held them all together.

A story that made him pause, his memories shrouded in mist, he needed time while she continued to hold him gently and stroke his cheek, his grip on her hand tightening and softening, ,,Yes? Yes, I think so…I think so...despite the pain, I-I still have you" he slowly realised and sanity returned to his being.

As he cuddled up to her and laid his head in the crook of her neck and held her like that for a moment, tears in her eyes as she blinked them away and thanked the gods again that nothing bad had happened.

Caracalla's hand was also on her cheek and she saw the gold tooth as she smiled, ,,Thank you my sun" she heard him say before he pulled her into a kiss, finally back to her senses as he slowly pulled away from her and helped her stand up.

Despite the riots, despite Geta and despite the madness, the Emperor was still here, gently grasping her hand and once more locking her in a kiss, even if Rome fell they would not give up trying to help him out of this doom.

From the moment she had taken him as her husband, she knew that she would always be there for him and that Caracalla would never stop loving her. Because even in madness there was nothing stronger than love.

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

@potatoesenpaii , @rainbowbox , @thankyouperconte , @myromanempire81 , @k-yurieee

[notedchampagne]

What makes a tlt au work for you? Do u have any favourites out there/that you’ve thought of?

its hard because it can go down to the writing! i have a huge bias for things that put focus on the characters acting awful and driving the story forward- if a story has a plot thats great, but its the difference between "gideon and harrow keep meeting up at parties and fall a little bit in love every time" and "gideons angry she lost her childhood to the cult so she attends a party with the tridentarii to shotgun adolescent experiences, and harrowhark, frustrated that gideon is pulling on her metaphorical leash, follows to stalk her". the former retains a 5+1 fic format and is more bite-size, while the latter puts more focus into their growth as characters. im not great at articulating what i like specifically, but ill put my favorite fics below:

what if nona was dogs tugs at my heart: its post-canon, slice-of-life, and has a unique concept (said in the title). i judged a book by its cover because i thought the premise seemed too silly at first but ive been made a fool and its pet clown. it feels so true to nona the way its about all the things nona loves and how she gets to explore the world through new eyes. i love the way it explores characters softening up and getting hurt through a third person pov

we have always lived in the apartment by @thatneoncrisis i keep saying this but for the love of GOD guys this au is so good it makes me cry and feel such a deep catharsis from it. it takes gideon and harrow and the ninth as a cult and explores their struggle to adapt to a modern society when noone ever gets a break (WOW ITS JUST LIKE IN REAL L-). quinn writes the sides of griddlehark i think go overlooked in fanfic often: their codependency, their tendency to lash out when theyre defensive, their mutual paranoia and different coping mechanisms, harrows psychosis and gideons bitterness, their relationships to each other as being the only other person who really understands what the other suffered through. god. i feel lightheaded.

"but SAM, i dont like angst but i want to see this writing!" read gap between a tragedy and a comedy

"SAM, i also like when gideon and harrow are horrible because theyre maladjusted teenagers! but i want more antics where the characters drive things forward over angst!" read whats eating gideon nav

you just aint receiving is one of my FAVORITE modern aus of all time (and i heavily recommend the authors other fics as well!) if you really want to see how much i love this fic the fact that my comments take up the entire phone screen probably says a lot. its hard to put it concisely: it keeps harrows air of misanthropy and cruelty but redefines it as the result of her upbringing and personal struggle to live in a university while dealing with a backpack of mental illness and frustration. it changes gideons personality as the daughter of john gaius in a way that makes sense having her grow up with johns middling parenting skills and getting everything she ever wanted (connecting it back to kirionas personality in ntn!). it brings in side characters (specially palamedes. my beautiful boy palamedes) in ways that compliment harrow and gideon but not so obviously that they only exist to be supports. they have their own lives and ideals. its a modern au that brings in the boiling politics of johns cult uprising once again in a really novel way

semi charmed kinda life by @griddlebait. jesuchristo and all his middle names this fic is GREAT for you if you want a slice of life, coming of age type modern au that explores what its like for gideon and harrow if they actually got the space to see who theyd become outside of the stifling fate tlt has for them. as far as modern aus go im usually very hesitant to read them because im afraid modernizing the characters takes features away from their core but i really love and respect the way the author treats the 69ers with care and draws distinct lines that shows me how their grow and change while keeping a line to the anchor. also they write HIDEOUS (complimentary) PINING. DISGUSTING. some of these chapters were so chock full of dyke drama that they made me nauseous and whimsical. i think once a friend said this fic felt like if gh could be reincarnated and i like that descriptor a lot

til the cows come home is another postcanon fic that made me feel sick and crybabyish about it- i would definitely recommend it if you want to explore a happier ending with griddlehark! with this and what if nona was dogs the thing i like most about them is that they mix up vulnerability with pain and fear, so it feels more lifelike that way if that makes sense. i lost my taste in fluff fics over time but when its interspersed with struggle and characters causing problems because they cant cope with themselves it feels much more earnest and raw

this became very long. im not sorry

[unnonexistence]

@zekoagun @synthapostate thank you!! that fixes my writing problem

does anyone know what cities newt and hermann are living in during uprising?

[within-ur-intro-verse]

I think it's very interesting that, during Round 2, Till was able to get away with killing an alien on a live Alien TV show. Sure, the alien guitar was probably low on the totem pole when it comes to importance, but it was living being (it had organs/blood) and, presumedly, a measure of sentience.

Humans are considered pets here. Alien Stage rounds are practically the equivalent of a galactically broadcast, legal, non-violent dog fights. This is like one of those dogs turning around and instead of fighting each other, they bit their owner. And it shows in the reactions of the aliens in the audience.

They are super shocked and disturbed by this display. By the expression on Till's face you can tell he didn't think of his actions like a declaration of war from a human rebel. He was acting like he destroyed an inanimate object to emphasize his point, not killed a member of a group that made him a human slave.

It also intrigues me how the alien guards act towards the contestants as the Rounds go on. In Round 2, Till is able to both kill an alien and defeat his opponent before the guards beat and restrain him.

In Round 5, Mizi is able to choke/punch Luka in the face repeatably before the guards intervene. And since they interfered before the Round was over, you can see visibly from their body language that they are unsure of how to proceed. Do they shoot and kill her for instigating a fight, even though she hasn't finished her song and so hasn't officially lost her Round yet? Thanks to their dallying, the human resistance has time to swoop in and rescue her from that fate.

In Round 6, Ivan kisses then proceeds to "strangle" his competitor, much like how Mizi did to Luka (but not really because Ivan doesn't want Till to get hurt, unlike Mizi with Luka). There still seems to be a delay from when Ivan starts "attacking" Till to when the security actually starts shooting at him. And the two first hits look more like warning shots than anything, especially since one hit him in the shoulder. It wasn't until the third shot that the damage was severe enough for him to bleed from the mouth. That means they gave him two chances to backpedal and cease his violence before deciding he needed to be put down.

So, what was my point with all of this? Probably just to emphasize that if Alien Stage is indicative of how the general alien population would act towards humans, then they are clearly unprepared to deal with the human uprising the news hinted at.

It's stated in the wiki that the Alien Stage that we are currently watching is the 50th iteration of the show. Had none of the previous human performers ever rebelled in the slightest? Because the guards were obviously unprepared for all three acts of violence that occurred in the Rounds. There was no established procedure in place to deal with outbursts from the contestants.

Here's how the humans can still win.

[theemporium]

[4.3k] everyone in the gym knows steve harrington. everyone knows who he is and what he does, but only you get to know how he fucks. (smut}

based of the unreleased song 'talk' by harry styles with a hint of boxer!steve because why not!

.

You knew who he was. 

Everyone knew who Steve Harrington was.

The boxer was known across the country. He was young. He was an uprising star in the sport. He was everything everyone wanted. And despite the growing fame and attention he was gaining, he still decided to reside in Hawkins, Indiana in between fights, to stay in his hometown even if he could have been living off in the west coast where everyone would fawn over him and the crazy house he could buy with his paycheck. 

You heard about him plenty of times before you ever saw him. 

You would hear some other gym members discussing his fights. How he was strong and fast and almost didn’t seem human when he was in the ring. How he moved with such agility that didn’t seem possible for a man his size. 

You would hear about other ladies in the gym, gushing about how they saw him a few days ago by the weights, sweat dripping down his body as he trained in a pair of shorts that were almost too short to be appropriate.

You would hear the receptionist fawning over the way he would smile and chat away with her, how he always seemed so genuine and caring and kind. How he would ask her about her dog and remember small little details she would passively make during conversations she had with him in the past.

You had heard so much about Steve Harrington, but it wasn’t until your third month at the gym that you finally saw him with your own eyes. 

You had a long day running errands you had been putting off all week, and with your odd day off from work, you had decided to make use of your free time. You hadn’t been at the gym all week and you knew you would kick yourself in the morning if you missed another day, so you decided to take advantage of the late opening hours and head over for a late session. 

You expected the place to be empty, but much to your surprise, one other member was there. 

Steve fucking Harrington.

Not a single word was shared between you two, but the lingering gazes said more than words ever could. Because you got it now, you understood the gym’s obsession with Steve because fucking look at him. He was gorgeous, much prettier than you assumed a built boxer to be. 

He had it all: the wide, broad shoulders and the toned torso and the bulging arms and the thick thighs. It was hard to tear your eyes away from him, and you often found that you didn’t want to. He was in grey sweatpants, yet your attention was drawn to his chest. 

He was shirtless and sweaty, and you never expected a hairy chest to work for you. As it turns out, it worked fucking wonders because even during your sets and the mini breaks between exercises, you found your eyes fixated on his panting chest. 

And he knew you were staring because he was staring right back.

You could feel his gaze on you, heavy and promising. You could feel him watching you by the weights, shamelessly focused on the swell of your ass with each squat. You could feel him watching when you pulled your shirt over your head, leaving you in your leggings and a sports bra for the rest of the workout. You could feel him staring the second your eyes tore away from him. 

Yet, despite what everyone said about being sweet and kind and chatty, he didn’t say a single word to you. 

And that was the arrangement you often found yourself in with Steve Harrington over the next month or so. 

It was usually later in the evening when you’d catch him, when the gym was mostly empty and there was no one to bother you. 

It started with just lingering looks. No matter where you were in the gym, no matter where he was, your eyes would always find each other. They would linger, stare, stay on you until eventually one of you disappeared into the locker rooms for the night and ended the cat-and-mouse game between you. 

Then, he decided to get bolder. You almost dropped the weights in your hands when he saddled up behind you one night. You hadn’t seen him come up behind you, didn’t even realise he was doing as much until you felt his hands on your waist and the heat of his body against your back. 

“Spread your legs,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, and your brain all but shut down as you stared blankly at him through the mirror on the wall opposite you. 

You opened your mouth to say something but not a single word left your lips. 

“Your form,” he said, an innocent smile on his lips but the look in his eyes said anything but. “Need to spread your legs a bit more if you want the squats to work, sweetheart.” 

Squats.

Yes, squats. That was the exercise you had been doing before he pressed himself up behind you. Except, even when his foot nudged your legs further apart and his hand on the dip of your back made you straighten up, he didn’t move. 

His eyes never left yours as he watched you through the mirror. As you squatted down, pretending that your focus was purely on your breathing and not the way the swell of your ass brushed against him. 

Because you weren’t thinking about that, at all. You weren’t thinking about that, or the way his hands ghosted your sides like he almost wanted to reach out to squeeze you again, or the fact his lip was tucked between his teeth as he watched you. 

You weren’t focused on any of that. 

He stayed with you until you finished your set, and just when you thought he was going to say something—to finally start up a conversation with you—he didn’t. 

He muttered a ‘good girl’ under his breath, and then walked away, leaving you hot and flushed and too fucking frustrated to finish your workout. 

So, you left. 

Except, it became Steve’s new game. You never spoke, you barely exchanged words, but the touching never stopped. 

He got bolder, and despite your frustrations, you couldn’t find it in yourself to be mad at it. You found yourself anticipating those soft touches, the lingering hands and the gentle caresses. You found yourself craving Steve in a way you had never craved a man before.

Only to not hear from him for a month.

A whole fucking month. 

You heard some of the other gym members talking about it. Apparently he was out of state until the end of the month, something to do with his fights being outside of Indiana. You knew that was his job. You knew he had no choice in the matter of where the location of the fights were chosen. 

But it didn’t stop the growing pit of disappointment when you’d walk into the gym and not see him there.

It had been a long and frustrating day at work when you found yourself driving to the gym. It was late, far later than you usually went, but you had steam to let out and you doubted sleep would come to you anytime soon. You needed a distraction. You needed to get your mind off everything that happened today.

You were worked up and agitated, and you weren’t thinking about anything but your own anger when you walked into the gym. 

And you weren’t expecting to see Steve Harrington.

Your steps faltered for a short moment when you saw him. He was sat on the other side of the gym in a pair of grey sweatpants and a baseball cap on his head, turned backwards and giving you the perfect view of his face. 

He had a small cut on the bridge of his nose, and another one on his bottom lip. His right cheekbone blossomed a light pinky-purple that still looked too tender to touch. He was sporting light scruff, making it seem as though he hadn’t shaved in a few days and, fuck, he suited it far more than you cared to admit. 

He was shirtless and sweaty and less than a few feet away from you, and yet you walked right past him as you made your way towards the large mirror wall by the weights.

Steve raised his brows, but you didn’t say a single word to him as you began your stretches. 

You were giving him a taste of his own medicine. 

You could feel his eyes glued on you as you began to make your way through your workout. You knew he had long given up on his own as he watched you, as he waited to see how long it would take for you to break and make your way over to him. But you were stubborn and a little hurt over something that wasn’t really his fault, and you weren’t about to throw your pride out the window for a man like Steve Harrington.

Even if every single cell in your body was begging for you to do so.

It was during your third set of lunging squats when he finally broke. The towel around his neck was tossed to the side as he made his way towards you, his eyes locked on yours through the mirror until he stopped right behind you, like he did for the first time many weeks ago.

“You’re ignoring me,” he said, something quite like amusement lacing his words.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “You’d have to talk to me for me to ignore you in the first place.” 

He let out a laugh, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip and you hated the way your eyes were drawn to the action. He took another step closer to you, closing the distance between you and only leaving a few inches between his chest and your back.

“Did you miss me?” 

“No.”

“You’re a bad liar, sweetheart.”

A shiver ran down your spine when you felt his fingers brushing up and down your arms, his touch feather-light and still mind-reeling all at once. His head tilted to the side, the smile on his lips almost feeling as condescending as his words.

“Did you watch my fights?”

“No.”

“Why not, honey?” 

You stayed silent. 

Steve’s lips twitched upwards as he took another step forward, as he pressed his body flush against yours, as his head dipped down so his lips were brushing against the shell of your ear.

“Did you miss me too much, honey?” He murmured, his warm breath fanning over your skin as you shivered against him. 

“No,” you mumbled, though you both knew it was a lie.

“No?” Steve tsked, his nose nudging against your ear. “A shame. I missed you a lot, sweetheart.”

You gulped.

“Missed being able to do this,” he continued as his hands dropped to your waist, squeezing your sides as he pulled you further against him. “Missed feeling this pretty ass against me.”

“Steve—”

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he grunted, his hooded eyes finding yours in the mirror once again. “Say it and I’ll walk away.”

You remained silent.

“But if you tell me you missed me, that you missed this too…” 

Your voice was a whisper. “Then what?” 

“Actions speak louder than words, baby,” was all the boxer said. 

It was overwhelming. All of it was so fucking overwhelming and suffocating and mind-boggling, and you still didn’t want it to stop. You didn’t want to stop feeling the weight and the heat of his body against yours, or the smell of his cologne that clung onto his skin through his workout. You didn’t want to stop feeling his hands on your body, or the sound of his husky, whispered voice in your ear. 

You didn’t want Steve Harrington to stop.

“I missed you,” you breathed out. “I missed you too.”

Steve’s grin was almost sadistic as he spoke. “Locker room. Five minutes.”

It was the longest five minutes of your life. 

Your body felt cold when he pulled away and made his way towards the locker rooms, not even looking back at you once. Your mind felt foggy, like you didn’t quite have the mindset to wade through the millions of thoughts that were screaming at you that this was a bad idea.

You didn’t know anything about him, not really.

You knew what people told you. You knew what the countless articles and reporters said about him. You knew that his hands on you felt like a fucking wet dream, the same hands that won countless fights across the country. You knew that you had dreamed about that man on countless nights since you first countered him months ago.

You knew Steve Harrington was a bad idea, but sometimes bad ideas sounded really fucking good.

The second you walked through the locker doors, he was on you. You barely got the chance to even mutter his name before his lips were pressed against yours, the kisses breathtaking and passionate and intense. His tongue darted out, coaxing your lips open until you complied, like putty in his hands.

Steve was dominant both in the ring and in this locker room.

With one hand on the back of your head and the other on the small of your back, you sunk into his embrace as he kissed you. With every step he took towards you, you took one back until your back was pressed against the cool metal of the gym lockers lining the wall. He pulled away enough for his nose to brush against yours, enough for you to desperately want to pull him down for another kiss. 

“Does it hurt?” You murmured as you leaned back against the lockers, taking in the small details of his injuries now that you were close enough to examine them. 

“You gonna kiss them better?” He asked, his brows raised in amusement. 

“Would it make you feel better?” 

His lips twitched upwards. “You wanna make me feel better, honey?” 

You almost found yourself nodding without realising it. 

“Then be a good girl for me and take off those shorts.” 

Your lips parted, jaw slack slightly in shock. 

“Haven’t even fucked you yet and that pretty little head of yours is already going dumb on me,” he mused as he laced his fingers through your hair, tugging your head back to look up at him. “Strip for me, honey.” 

Once again, that voice in the back of your head returned to you. You didn’t know much about Steve Harrington and the kind of man he was. You didn’t know much other than what he showed people. He was just a man who you had been borderline flirting with for the last few weeks. 

A gym crush. 

That was all. 

But it was hard to rationalise logically with yourself when your clothes were on the floor, your heated body was pressed against the metal lockers and his face was tucked between your legs as he lapped at your soaking cunt like a starved man. 

“Shit,” you whined out, your head hitting the metal with a soft thump as you tangled your fingers in his hair, the cap he was wearing before was now long gone. “Just—fuck!”

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he groaned his words against you, the vibrations ticking your clit as he glanced up at you. “Couldn’t stop thinking about this pretty pussy when I was away, honey. Kept thinking about how sweet you’d taste.” 

“Steve,” you breathed out. 

His arms wound around your thighs, one tossed over his shoulder as he kept your legs spread. His hands kneaded the fat of your thighs, squeezing and pulling you closer whenever you tried to wiggle away. 

His tongue licked a thick strip along your cunt, watching the way your body shivered in response. His lips wrapped around your swollen clit, kissing and sucking until the pretty noises you were making echoed through the empty locker room like fucking music to his ears. 

“Atta girl,” he groaned as your thighs squeezed around him. “Fucking destroy me, baby. Let me die between these pretty fucking thighs.” 

You tugged on his hair when the coil in the pit of your stomach tightened. You could feel your muscles tightening, your body tensing, stars blurring your vision. The noises you were making were pathetic and incoherent and needy, but he didn’t stop. 

He didn’t stop as you came on his tongue.

He didn’t stop as he guided you through your orgasm.

He didn’t stop when your body was shaking.

He didn’t stop until you were tugging him back up towards you, until you took his face in your hands and kissed him despite his lips and chin glistening with your release. He didn’t stop as he moaned against your mouth, sliding his tongue against yours like it wasn’t just inside you moments ago. He didn’t stop as his hands dropped to your ass, groping your cheeks and lifting you up with ease until your limbs were wrapped around him.

“Such a needy girl,” he groaned as you tugged him into another kiss. “Would’ve fucked you silly weeks ago if I knew you’d be so fucking desperate.”

“Maybe if you talked to me sooner, I would’ve let you,” you retorted between kisses, not even caring to pay attention to where he was walking.

“Maybe I could’ve fucked that attitude out of you sooner,” he countered, his hand coming down on your ass cheek as you gasped against his lips.

“Maybe you should actually fuck me then, Harrington, or was all the endurance training really a load of shit?”

His laugh was low and quiet with not an ounce of amusement in his voice. He pulled back enough to look at you, something hidden in his dark eyes that you couldn’t quite work out, but it made you squirm nonetheless. 

“You wanna test my endurance, baby?” He asked in a gruff voice.

You swallowed back the noise you wanted to make. “Show me what you’ve got, Harrington.”

And that sadistic smile of his returned.

You hadn’t even realised he walked you into the showers until he placed you down, reaching around your body as he turned the water on. It was hot, raining down on your already heated skin and, yet, you didn’t have it in your heart to move when you watched the water pour down on him. 

The water soaking him in seconds, dripping down his chest and down the ridges of his abs. The way his arms strained like he was holding back from reaching out to you. The way his hair framed around his face. The way his eyes darkened as his gaze dragged down your wet, naked body before finding your face again. 

The way he looked like a scene from one of the many dreams you had about him, but he was real. He was real and he was in front of you, and you needed him inside you like you needed air.

“Hands on the wall and spread your legs, honey,” he demanded in a low voice, his words sending a hum through your body. 

Your breath was caught in your throat but you did what he said. Maybe because something about his presence was so dominating, maybe because something inside you just wanted to listen to him.

Maybe it was just because you wanted to hear him call you a good girl again.

His body was hot against your back, the scruff of his beard brushing against your skin as he nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck. Soft, open-mouthed kisses were placed along your skin as you leaned back into his touch, as your body silently begged for more. 

One arm wrapped around you, his hand splayed across your stomach as he held you in place whilst his free hand wrapped around himself. He let out a low groan as he squeezed the base of his cock, nuzzling his face further into your neck as he stroked himself. 

His hand slid up your chest, squeezing and groping your tit as you moaned and preened underneath him. He rolled and tugged your nipple between his fingers as your pretty moans echoed through the empty shower stalls, bouncing off the tiled walls and accompanying the slick sounds of his hand stroking his dick. 

His teeth scraped across the skin of your neck as you shivered beneath him, as you threw your head back against his shoulder to give him further access to your neck. It would be a fucking headache in the morning, you were so fucking aware of it. You would be cursing his name when you were throwing every product on it to try and hide the hickeys he gave you before you went into work in the morning, but right now you quite liked being his little ragdoll—being thrown around and absolutely wrecked by Steve Harrington.

“Shit, baby, you’re fucking soaked,” he groaned from behind you, his lips brushing against your shoulder as the head of his cock nudged your entrance. He guided it up and down your pussy, teasingly pressing against your clit just to hear the little whine you let out as one of your hands reached out for him behind you.

“Please,” you breathed out. “Steve, please.”

“What do you want, honey?”

“Want you to fuck me, Steve.”

He grumbled out a string of curse words when he finally slipped inside of you, feeling the walls of your cunt clench and squeeze every inch of him as he bottomed out inside you. He didn’t move at first, his forehead pressed against your shoulder and his arms caging you in as he tried to do everything in his power to not instantly come. 

The stretch of his cock inside you was a pleasurable burn. He was much bigger than any guy you had ever slept with before, much thicker too. And maybe the fact you couldn’t quite remember the last guy you hooked up with beyond your ex-boyfriend over a year ago made you realise how fucking long it had been since someone had fucked the daylights out of you. 

And it made you realise how fucking badly you wanted it to be Steve.

His self-restraint lasted all of two minutes before he finally gave in. The slow tempo and hushed words went flying out the window when your arm reached around behind you, as your nails scratched the back of his neck as you begged him to fuck you harder, faster, like he fucking hated you.

Steve pressed your body against the wall, your tits and cheek pressed against the cool tiles as he jackhammered into you from behind. His hands were on your waist, squeezing your sides as he watched his cock disappear inside of you with every thrust. 

“Fucking look at you,” he grunted out between thrusts, one hand tangled in your hair and keeping your head against the wall whilst the other squeezed your ass. “Look how good you take my cock, honey. Look so fucking pretty like this.”

“Shit,” you whimpered as his hand lightly slapped your ass cheek again. 

“That’s it, baby, fucking squeeze me,” Steve gritted out through clenched teeth, his jaw falling slack as your walls convulsed around him. “Fuck, baby, yes. Just like that, baby, such a good girl f’me.”

“Steve,” you moaned out, your nails desperately trying to cling onto something as you felt yourself quickly approaching the edge. 

“Scream my name, baby, nobody is gonna hear you in here,” he teased as his hips slapped against yours, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the empty shower stalls. “Scream for me when you come.” 

The next few minutes passed with a blur. 

Steve wrapped his arms around you as he pulled you to his chest, fucking you from behind and letting his hands wander all over your body under the spraying shower as you finally came. You remembered him pressing his lips against yours, the noises between you both muffled and enveloped between your kisses.

His thrusts became shakier and a little slower as he finally came, his actions a little more desperate and needy as he pulled you close to him as he spilled inside you. He whispered your name like a mantra, over and over again as he hugged your body close and pressed his head against the crook of your neck. 

No words were shared between you as he reached for the shower gel dispenser the gym provided and squeezed a healthy dollop on his palm before he began to clean you up, leaving the odd kiss here and there on your shoulder and neck and face and hands as he did so.

After everything, it was almost unsettling to see him be so soft and caring with the same hands he just manhandled you with, with the same hands he used in the ring every other week. 

It was almost unsettling how much you enjoyed it.

“I guess your endurance training isn’t shit after all,” you finally spoke up as he wrapped a towel around your shivering body.

His lips twitched upwards. “Believe me now, honey?”

“Maybe,” you murmured as you tried to bite back your own smile. “I think I might need a little more convincing.” 

He raised his brows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. 

Steve’s hands gripped your towel as he tugged you closer, dipping his head down to kiss you again before he whispered, “I’ll fuck you as many times as you like for your little experiment, honey, just say the word.”

“You promise, Harrington?” You whispered against his lips.

“I promise, honey,” he murmured. 

.

[sherbertilluminated]

Last night I was talking with my friends @teefigotem and @calypsopond about the pacing of the musical Les Miserables. I think Les Mis' libretto is one of the best foundations for a musical out there, but the first act has so much more plot and more iconic songs than the second, and I worry that top-heavy structure diminishes the ultimate impact of the uprising in the second act.

Caly and Maddy agreed that the 2012 film adaption had the right idea when it swapped the positions of "Do you Hear the People Sing" and "One day More." Transplanting the former to the beginning of Act 2 maintains the balance of revolutionary fervor (and iconic songs) between the two acts, and a serves as a payoff to the tension at the end of Act 1. While "Upon these Stones/Building the Barricade" begins Act 2 in the current libretto, it's high on exposition and low on enthusiasm. Since "Do You Hear the People Sing" has become an international revolutionary anthem, making it the opening of the uprising, rather than the prelude to it, builds on *ahem* that connection.

Just picture it: the audience returns to their seats, the orchestra hums with tension, and the lights go up on a somber street with a single voice—Enjolras, probably—singing. Students emerge from the set, workers join in, the turntable starts turning and it becomes clear that soon a barricade will be built in the street. The subsequent Marius/Eponine conversation that transitions into "On my Own" would still probably work here. In the span of fifteen minutes, the thesis statement of the revolting students turns into the reveal of the final barricade. It'd be pretty damn rousing, right?

The potential problem with this change is the lacuna it would leave behind. In the current structure of Les Miserables, "Do you Hear the People Sing" is an elaboration on Enjolras' claim that "they will come when we call!" and going directly from that rallying cry to a quiet romantic interlude flattens the rhetorical tension between romantic love and revolution "Red and Black" and makes Mairus seem a little silly (which, to be fair, he is. But Enjolras is not.) Although "Do You Hear the People Sing" is a little too bombastic for Act 1, before the uprising actually begins, there's still got to be some kind of transition. Something needs to foreshadow the violence to come. But what?

I proposed that the best transition would be a reprise of Stars. And that Eponine should get to sing it.

Since the Broadway premiere of the musical Les Miserables in 1987 and especially following the 2012 film adaptation, Eponine's character has been a locus for fandom attention and discourse. Because she's really compelling: despite being the daughter of the selfish, abusive Thenardier, she devotes her life to protecting Marius and ultimately sacrifices it for him. But the closest she ever gets to being understood is by the audience; even Marius, one of two people in the show to be kind to her (the other being Valjean), doesn't really understand the full extent of her devotion to him. And that devotion is powerful, whether as a proxy for audience members' own experiences with unrequited love or a representation of the bourgeousie's reliance on unacknowleged suffering. There's a lot going on with her in the musical. But there's even more to her in the Brick.

Unlike my esteemed Les Mis mutuals I'm definitely not informed enough to do original analysis, but I'm a big fan of the Javert/Eponine wolfdog theory. My introduction to it was with this post by @pilferingapples, although I don't know whether it originated somewhere else. The theory posits that Javert and Eponine, who are both compared to wolfish dogs for their ferocity and devotion to their idiosyncratic systems of morality, are character foils who represent the limited choices offered to people excluded from. I definitely don't know the op who suggested they trade methods of death (if anyone does, please let me know!) but that's also in the Brick. And while the musical adaptation doesn't preserve Hugo's canine/lupine symbolism, it keeps Eponine's one-sided committment to guarding Marius. And it keeps Javert's devotion to the institution of Law.

"Stars" is the hymn of that devotion. It's more sinister than Eponine's love for Marius, but in the grand scheme of things it's just as pathetic. Giving a short reprise of that song to Eponine not only explicates that parallel and gives new life to relatively-unused musical motif, it has the potential to tie together the action of the first act and add a new dimension to subsequent scenes.

Imagine if, instead of beginning "Do You Hear the People Sing" immediately after "Red and Black" or transitioning directly to the Rue Plumet, the scene changes to the outside of the ABC cafe. On the other side of the turntable/wall, Eponine is waiting. And worrying. She knows her father's going to rob a house tonight and that the girl Marius asked her to find lives there*. She can't let her father hurt him. She's smarter than him. She'll do whatever it takes to keep him safe, she swears—not to God or the stars, as Javert does, but to herself. The promise is shocking, because the audience heard that melody two songs ago and are just now discovering there is another way to be. There is another vow that can be made.

While she's singing, the ABC society files out the door. Maybe some hand out pamphlets or chat with people on the street. If the production wants to emphasize Eponine and Gavroche secret sibling bond, maybe they interact a little. But no one pays her too much mind. No one ever does.

The last person to emerge is Marius, looking a bit shaken. The timeline of the students' plans has been unexpectedly accelerated, he says. In case it's his last chance—nevermind why, 'Ponine, don't worry about me—he needs to see her once. You've found her, haven't you? Could you show me? Please? For my sake?

Consumed by shame and dread and the sense that he'll probably do something really stupid if she doesn't tag along, she agrees. And the stage begins to turn into the Rue Plumet, where "In my Life" begins. The whole interaction would take maybe two minutes.

There are of course thematic objections to this plan. There's the argument that "Stars" ought to be a unique, distinct song like "Bring Him Home." But those motifs are reused in instrumental form after Javert's and the students' respective deaths, so I don't necessarily think they're scene- or character-specific. There's also the argument that the melody of "Stars" is altogether too rigid for Eponine's character. I think there are a couple moments that would work quite well with the emotion("and if they fall as Lucifer fell," for example) but if you really don't want Javert's and Eponine's motif to cross, the melody of "A Little Fall of Rain" ("and you/I will keep me/you safe") could work for this moment too.

There's also the argument that Eponine already gets "too much" attention in the musical adaptation and doesn't need. But I don't know if that's true either. She interacts with Marius in several short scenes, she's present for "A Heart Full of Love" and "One Day More," she goes on her errand to Valjean, sings "On my Own," goes back to the barricade and dies shortly after. She gets about as much stagetime as Cosette does, and a little less than Marius.

It's true that she stands out as a character, but that's because she's got such interesting writing and is so isolated in the narrative. And while it's important to keep her "on [her] own," for the plot, using shared motifs to emphasize her symbolic similarities with other characters might make her character fit more cohesively into Les Miserables' grander thematic narrative. It could even make "On my Own" that much more powerful if she has a little hope that saving Marius from her father might get him to like her, and subsequently understands that this is not happening. But there's a lot more to her than being Marius' rejected best friend** and this choice has the potential to make that clear onstage.

In conclusion: moving "Do You Hear the People Sing" to the start of Act 2 letting Eponine do a wolfdog reprise of "Stars" between "Red and Black" and "In my Life" would be sick as fuck and maybe resolve some pacing issues in the libretto.

*There is a moment in the show where she realizes that she and Cosette grew up together. I like it in concept but it's a little awkwardly-placed and integrating it into the unnamed Red and Black/In my Life transition song would be great. Overall, her interactions with Marius seem like afterthoughts in between the larger numbers, which isn't fair to either of them.

**And for the record: this not a post pitting her against Cosette! They are both good characters and I wish the best for both of them!

[artbyblastweave]

A while ago, I heard some piece of Apocrypha that Fallout 3 was originally set only 20 or so years after the Bombs dropped, and was later moved up in the timeline in order to accommodate familiar and marketable setting elements like the BOS, the Super Mutants, and so on. I forget where I heard this, and I don’t necessarily think it’s true. But I think it’s a really interesting lens to view a lot of the stories and characters through. You assume 20 years and suddenly it makes sense that someone like Moira is just now getting around to trying to codify survival advice; your choice to take the project seriously or half-ass it for personal gain then becomes a statement about the future of the world. You assume 20 years and suddenly it makes sense that they’d build Megaton in a crater, even if it had a live bomb in it, and haven’t yet had opportunity to move somewhere without a bomb. You assume 20 years and suddenly the Andale cannibals make a lot more sense; they aren’t LARPing pre-war life with eerie accuracy, they’re desperately play-acting at the lifestyle they thought they were going to have when they were kids or young adults, and the old guy they’ve got with them is the actual adult from that period who has the context to understand what they’re aping and how fucked it is. Tenpenny, Moriarity, and Dukov all make more sense now; their immigration doesn’t post date the war, they immigrated *before,* to escape the resource wars. Tenpenny Tower as a power bloc is an affluent settlement that *held out* rather than something that just happened to spring up centuries afterward. Agatha doesn’t have a tenuous connection to a famous musician who got sealed up in vault 92, she herself was a famous musician who got out before it all went to shit, and reuniting her with the violin is a decision to help something purely good from the old world last a little while longer. The Gary uprising was recent. The Lone Wanderer is as old as the new world. Lucas Simm’s sheriff getup, Three-Dogs anachronistic radio DJ routine, the whole thing with the Vampires, the Mechanist and the Antagonizer- it’s not passed-down half-remembered cultural knowledge, they’re doing bits as a coping mechanism, or because its still actively recognizable to a plurality. Little Lamplight and Big Town I think make a little more sense under this paradigm. Vault 112 is aping a world that recently died. I haven’t even touched how much more sense the main plot makes if people have only been dealing with the bad water for half a generation instead of 200 years. Going full Charlie Kelly this fine evening

[pascalispretty]

history stopped in 1936

Javi G x F!Reader

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Angst, Spanish Civil War AU, war and its horrors, brief and vague descriptions of sex, it's implied that Javi and reader are speaking Spanish the entire time, references to drinking and smoking, unbeta'd so please be gentle!

Summary: The Spanish Civil War threatens the slice of paradise you and Javi have found together. (AO3)

A/N: Hoo boy. This was written for @studioghibelli's writing challenge, and the moment I saw the moodboard, I knew I wanted to do something Atonement-inspired. You don't need to know who the opposing sides were in the war, but if you'd like to learn more, I'd recommend George Orwell's "Homage to Catalonia". The title comes from an essay of his. As always my love to @misscharlielulu for her support.

Mallorca, August 1936

Spain burns and, across the Balearic Sea, rumours are carried like ash on the wind.

You and Javier had fled Barcelona in the middle of the night, just after St Jordi’s Day. The streets had still been littered with rose petals as you had made your way to the docks, and the waiting ship. The atmosphere in Barcelona had grown tense, shimmering with electricity like the air just before a thunderstorm.

In July, your fears had been vindicated when news trickled across the sea, whispers of a violent uprising. Nobody could say for certain who had seized power – the anarchists, the communists, the Carlists, or some as-yet-unknown political spectre.

By contrast to the news reports that trickled over from the mainland, Mallorca felt safe. The ocean separating the island from the peninsula made the war feel further away, something that was happening in another world. Even when Barcelona fell or when, days later, Franco invaded with his African army in Seville - it all felt so far away, separated by miles of sparkling blue water.

On your island sanctuary, you and Javi managed to find a measure of happiness. Reminders of the war were never far away, and you were all probably smoking and drinking too much, but it didn’t matter. You could still watch movies on the projection reel he’d bought before he met you. Tucked up against Javi’s side, watching Clark Gable or Errol Flynn, you could forget the war on the mainland entirely.

It was only when the war came to Mallorca that you realised how deluded you had been.

With censored newspapers and downed radio communications, rumours run like wildfire across the island. Days after Seville falls, the stableboys hear that the Republicans have landed on the east coast – the housekeeper tells Marta that it’s Russians sent by Stalin, and the man who delivers the mail insists its Italians. There’s fighting in the streets of Palma and to the ports in the east, but nobody can agree on who exactly is fighting who.

You clean up after breakfast, a hastily made pa amb tomàquet that masks the staleness of the bread. Even for a family as rich as the Gutierrez’s, you cannot waste food anymore.

They say the fighting is in Palma, and Porto Cristo. Drawn onto a map, the Gutierrez villa would form the apex of the triangle; it’s about as far away from the fighting as you can get while still being on dry land. You try to breathe. It’s just another Tuesday morning. You’re breaking leftover breadcrusts into a bowl for the dogs when Javi appears.

“Leave that, my love. Come out into the garden with me?” He asks, wrapping a large hand around your wrist. You don’t need much convincing; you wipe your hands down on a towel and twine your fingers with your husband’s as you walk out across the patio to the greenery beyond.

The gardens are a riot of colour. In the hazy, golden light of summer, the colours seem almost over-saturated. It’s a world away from the dark, medieval splendour of Barcelona. Foxgloves and red poppies and bright marigolds fill the carefully planned beds around the pond, a riot of Technicolour hues that somehow work beautifully in concert.

In the sunlight, Javi’s curls look gilded; he glows, in spite of the anxiety furrowing his brow. A stone bench sits beneath a gazebo, and he leads you over there. The wooden structure is heavy with jasmine; the smell perfumes the air, blending with the salt of the nearby sea.

“Is something wrong, Javi? Is it Marta?” You ask, worry colouring your voice. Javi’s mother, Marta, was a complicated woman. She had loathed Lucas, her nephew by marriage, but had been unable to get out of bed for days when news had reached her that he had been taken into Montjuïc Castle as a prisoner. Even across the ocean, you had come to know that nobody came out of Montjuïc alive.

Javi shakes his head, his hand cupping your elbow as he guides you to sit down on the bench beside him. Even now, it’s unlike him to look so morose.

“I’ve been talking to my father.” This much you already knew. One of the stableboys had come to fetch Javi in the middle of breakfast: his father had requested his son ride out with him. Whatever they discussed, it’s knocked your husband’s relentless optimism, and that worries you more than anything.

You hold Javi’s hands and wait patiently for him to tell you what’s bothering him, but he seems unable to find the words. Your mind careers from calamity to disaster in his silence. Someone somewhere has issued a warrant for Javi’s arrest. The army is on the move and will reach the cliffs by nightfall. His father, Jordi, has had another heart attack.

“My father- that is, my father and I-” Javier starts. You squeeze his fingers, your heart beating a rapid tattoo in your rising panic.

“Please, Javi, just tell me,” you plead. He looks out over the cliffs and his shoulders slump resignedly.

“My father thinks you should leave.” A punch to the gut could not have winded you more. You sit there, blinking at him like an idiot, unable to understand what he just said.

“My father thinks you need to leave, and I do too.” He turns away from the ocean, cupping your face in his hand and forcing you to look into your eyes. “You need to leave Mallorca, leave Spain. Tonight if possible.”

“You want to send me away?” You manage, sounding rather more pathetic than you’d hoped. Javi shakes his head, his lovely brown eyes full of sorrow.

“I want you to be safe. And it’s not safe here, not for you.”

“It’s no more dangerous for me than-”

“It is more dangerous for you. The worst thing they do to men is shoot them.” The unspoken implication hangs unpleasantly in the air. Javi sighs and glances back towards the house. “My father thinks he can persuade my mother to leave.” You want to scream. You want to ask who made Jordi such an authority, who made him king of his own tiny dominion and gave him the power to dismiss you.

In your gut, you know Javier’s father is right. He’s been weathering the storms of Spanish politics since before you were born, a wily fox of a man who had declared months ago that the political powderkeg was about to explode.

 “I won’t leave you,” you insist, your voice firmer now. Jordi might be right; an army will come here someday. But you’d rather face them than abandon your family. “Until death do us part, Javi.”

“Please, sweetheart. It would only be for a little while. The war can’t last forever.” He manages a smile; a soft, crooked grin that wants to make you give in. You’d do so much to make him smile again.

“Your father will never get Marta to leave. She won’t leave him, and you won’t leave them.” The half-smile falls from Javi’s face.

“They’re old, sweetheart. I need to take care of them. But you – you’re strong. I know you can do this. You’ll go somewhere safe, and as soon as we’ve weathered this storm, you’ll come back.” Both of his hands are cupping your face now. Somewhere overhead, seagulls are screaming. His optimism makes you want to scream too.

“No, Javi, no, I can’t-” you start again, clutching his wrists in your hands.

“You can, you must,” he talks over you. In frustration you pull away, marching over the grass towards the house. One of Marta’s cats yowls at you as you pass it, pleading for attention, but you’re too upset to pay it any mind. Javi is hot on your heels, by turns pleading and stern. The door to your bedroom bangs against the wall as you fling it open.

You want space, but Javi won’t give it to you. He’s in your face, his hands roaming over you, clutching at your shoulders, your arms, your wrists. His rosy view of the world had been charming when you’d first met – now it makes you angry beyond words.

“I’m not leaving you,” you insist sharply, bringing your hands up to push your husband away from you. His hands circle your wrists instead, refusing to let you escape. “I’m not leaving you!” You repeat it in English, in your broken Catalan, in French. You tell him over and over in as many languages as you know, all the while struggling to break free of his hold.

The kiss takes you by surprise. He keeps one hand at your wrists; the other cups the back of your head. There’s no elegance to the kiss. He presses his mouth to yours, full lips meeting your own, your breath mingling with his. You’d almost think he’d done it deliberately to throw you off balance, if not for the surprised little intake of breath he makes.

“You are leaving tonight,” he says, once he’s broken the kiss. His fingertips grip the nape of your neck, your foreheads press together. You try to shake your head against his, but his hand at your neck grips tighter. “If I have to throw you into the boat myself, you’re leaving tonight.”

“I’ll hate you forever if you do.” It’s a childish assertion. His soft brown eyes fill with quiet devastation, and you immediately want to take it back.

“I’d rather have you hate me and survive than love me and die.” The two of you grapple again; him trying to keep his hold on you as you try to escape his grip. You have no real notion of why you want to break free – you could hardly hide in a cabinet until he gave up and allowed you to stay.

When the two of you tumble back onto the bed, it is an accident. You had tried to kick out with your legs, but had only succeeded in knocking you both off balance. His arms wrap around you as you lie on top of him, doing your best to squirm free and failing miserably.

You and Javi rarely argue. Any petty squabbles you do have are usually easily and quickly resolved. And when you do fight, you’ve gotten used to burning out that tension with sex.

So it feels like the most natural thing in the world to start pulling his shirtfront open. He takes your cue, his hands falling from your wrists and setting to work on the buttons of your dress. There’s a frantic energy to you both; for all you had been fighting him before, you can’t pull him close enough now. Your hands itch with the need to touch him, to memorise every inch and curve of him before he sends you away.

You sink your fingers into his curls and drag him down closer. It’s not making love, not the soft, slow sex that you and Javi usually have. This is something harsher, more demanding. The bedframe rattles with the force of your movements, and you know you should be embarrassed. The servants or Javi’s parents could hear, your actions unmistakable when the noise of the bed combines with the moans escaping from you both.

When you’ve both come, and are lying satiated in each other’s arms, the fire has gone out of your conversation. Javi rests his head on your breasts, humming contentedly as you play with his curls. You admire the Monet painting that faces the bed, the hazy floral landscape that you wish for all the world you and your husband could escape into. The canvas lilies almost seem to sway in the breeze with the haze of heat rising through the room.

“What if you forget me?” You say softly. As much as you know Javi loves you, you can’t deny that the thought scares you. That you will leave, but after long years of war, Javi will have moved on. He’ll find some pretty Mallorquin girl that never went into exile and never come to rescue you from your banishment.  

“I could never forget you,” Javi says, tilting his head back to look at you. Those beautiful eyes of his are so full of sorrow that you want to cry yourself.

“You say that. What if this war lasts as long as the Great War? Longer?”

“It doesn’t matter. ‘If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever’,” he says in English.

“Byron?” You ask, and he shakes his head. Of course he would quote poetry at a time like this.

“Tennyson. It’s true. I could fill the whole island with flowers, all the thinking of you I shall do while we’re parted.” Javi’s hands rest on your thighs, his thumbs stroking lazy circles onto your skin.

“Wouldn’t that be something to behold. A whole island, full of flowers. You could live four lifetimes and never run out of scenery to paint.”

“I would write to you every day, you know,” Javier manages eventually. You know he would. Javi has always had an excellent turn of phrase – there were half-drafted screenplay ideas all over your apartment in Barcelona.

“And one letter in twenty might reach me,” you retort. The postal service hasn’t exactly been running efficiently of late, never mind the inevitable censorship everything seems to be going through.

“I would keep you here with me if there was any way I could be sure you’d be safe.” He says gently, and you sigh. “And I would like you to go willingly. But you’re going either way, I’m afraid.” Even issuing orders, there’s undeniable tenderness to it.

“Between the both of us, we might fill all of Europe with flowers.” You try to imagine it; two paths of flowers creeping across the continent, growing every time you and Javi think of one another.

“The whole world, even.” Javier clutches a little tighter at your thighs, and you can hear tears thickening his voice. You hold each other tighter, and you know now that neither of you will loosen your grip until the very last moment.

****

Later, there will be a forget-me-not pressed into your hand as you and Javi say your final goodbyes at the dock. Your clothes are weighted down by the money and jewellery sewn into the hems, but it’s the flower you treasure the most. You refuse to cry as you sail away; you stare insistently at the dock, long after Javier has faded from your sight. You know he’ll be doing the same, standing on the pier and keeping a watchful eye on the horizon until the sky starts to lighten with the dawn.

Later, in spite of your denials, there will be letters. Javi writes to you often, mostly of trivial, household matters that won’t be censored. In every one he tells you how the gardens are growing. In every one, there is a flower drawn into the margin. You hoard them like a dragon hoards gold; when your homesickness makes you feel physically ill, you surround yourself with his letters and tracing the lines of his pen.

Later, there will be a screenplay. It’s smuggled off the island and brought directly to you by a man who only speaks brusque Catalan, and you nearly weep just to hear the language spoken again. The screenplay bears a pseudonym – Javier Peña – but every line is clearly your Javi’s work. It tells of a great love story flourishing in the face of a brutal war, of love conquering all. You cry over the last twenty pages, a handkerchief clasped to your face so you don’t smudge the ink.

Later, the war will end. Spain will survive, though she will not be saved. You will never walk through a garden of flowers without thinking of Javi.  

****

 “But what really happened? The answer is simple: the lovers survive and flourish.” – Ian McEwan, Atonement

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To everyone who doesn't know Kid Icarus: Uprising....

Reblog for sample size because I know most of my followers know the game XD