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#Barricade Day 2021
ofpd · 4 months
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came across an old post and saw the timestamp and was like woah i wrote that on barricade day 2021. how was i thinking about atla when it was literally barricade day
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transrevolutions · 2 years
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Eponine, for barricade day.
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eveningepiphany · 9 months
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tease | H.S oneshot
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summary: seeing harry tonguing his guitar last night has you finally admitting the state he puts you in. and that’s never good when you’re a tour photographer. especially now you have photographic evidence of the moment.
warnings: SMUT, oral (fem rec), dirty talk, praise, swearing
a/n: can’t stop thinking about that fucking video? like it’s on loop in my head I can’t. he was so slutty last night it’s illegal. also this isn’t 100% proofread so enjoy I hope it’s okay!
———
Some days at work are harder than others for you.
Today, you knew was going to be rough the second Harry walked out in single-handedly the most revealing outfit he could have. Borderlining absolutely slutty.
And as his tour photographer, that is quite a bold statement to make when you’ve seen every single outfit— and when his top half is often found shirtless up on stage.
But tonight, out backstage when you were prepping your SD cards and ordering your camera lenses, he walked out of his dressing room adorning his stage outfit to show you, and your stomach dropped the sight of him.
It was a new style, something he hadn’t worn before. A cropped, tasseled blue vest, paired with low rise pants that looked like they were clinging onto his hips for dear life.
“Alrighty, what d’ya think?” He asked, doing a little spin to shake the tassels.
Your mouth opened and words struggled to form as your head fogged over from just seeing his body. And the way his ferns were fully out— along with almost all of his other ink on display. Arms, chest and all.
You had sworn this, many times, was just your eye for art. For people like him who made photography electric. But as time and the tour progressed on from its earlier start in 2021, it was getting harder to convince yourself. Because even if you didn’t acknowledge it, there was no way to justify the heat that stirred in your stomach as just admiration.
“Oh— wow— I like the tassels,” you paused, tongue swiping over your lips, “they’ll be really fun in the photos, I’ll try to get some motion blur type shots with them.”
Your hand reached out before your brain even computed what it was doing, grabbing one of the rhinestoned threads at the base of his vest and running down it. Knuckles brushing the side of his chest.
“Excited to see them as always, m’lovely.” He smiles, the pet name making you flush.
“10 minutes till you’re on, H!” Someone called out.
You laughed at the panicked expression on his face as he realised he was probably dawdling, and in fact behind on his own schedule.
“Alright!” He confirmed back, then chuckling as he whispered to you, “I still gotta brush m’teeth.”
“Well, cmon let’s go, I’ll see what behind the scene shots I can get.”
And you thought that the time spent with him pre-show would ease your racing mind a little, but now that you’re out on the floor you’re almost jittering.
He looks fucking delectable. And by the sound of the stadium around you, they notice it too.
As he steps out you have to force your camera up to your face, which is something you never have to do? But looking at him through your viewfinder is hardly enough to satiate you.
Especially a little later in the show, when your camera is aimed to the back of him— and he’s squated down to get a drink of water…
His pants slipping so far down his hips that the waistband of his Calvin Kleins are easily visible.
Some girls on barricade behind you are going feral simply at the sight. And you can hardly blame them, because the sight of them makes you a little light headed too. Tonight he’s really not leaving much to the imagination.
You feel obliged to take a photo of it, lens aiming up to him— hearing the girls from behind you as your cameras shutters open to capture the moment. They’re shouting clearly, “Y/N, you get that pic girl!”
Another one yelling from your left, “SHES ONE OF US!”
You laugh at them. The fans are always an amazing part of the show. You leave with an array of adorable bracelets, funny shirts, and always lovely compliments.
You snap a few more photos before someone calls your name again, and you turn. A brunette girl, in an incredible replica of his recent purple and black heart overalls from the recent Wembley show, is standing.
“Y/N!” She reaffirms when you’re looking at her.
“Hi lovely, your outfit is amazing.” You smile, and she has fresh tears streaming down her face— a common love on tour occurrence.
“Ohmygod, thank you so much. I made you this tshirt, i wanted to give it to you!” She pulled a white shirt from her feet, presumably from a bag.
She held it out, unfolding it to show off the print on the front.
You immediately couldn’t help but let out a shocked laugh at it. A big pink shaded heart, with 2 also heart-shaped photos on each side of it— of you and Harry. But the best bit was the bubble written font, “my favourite parents!” that is above it.
“I— can I please take a photo of you with it first.”
She slaps a hand over her mouth, “No way, of course you fucking can.”
You take a few photos of her posing with the shirt, “I have 2, please feel free take them both!”
You can only assume one of them is intended for Harry. And even if it’s a little weird of you to take them, you do anyway because the girl was too lovely to even consider denying them.
“Thank you so much.” You chuckle as you hang them over your elbow. She still looks starstruck at the interaction that just occurred and you’re overly excited to edit the photos later on.
In the time of the short interaction, you turned to find Harry. He’s about to transition into she, and is over on the main stage.
You hustle to get yourself up from the floor and onto the stage area. Moving to chuck the shirts on the bench, where most of the bands essentials are for easy access.
Harry sees you over there and you decide to show him the design on the front before you can overthink it.
He’s beginning to sing the intro, and he chuckles the lyrics into the mic as he sees it. And fans around the whole arena scream at the shirt— which you didn’t realise was being displayed on the big screens.
You shake your head, struggling not to admire the tone of his laugh that just echoed around the stadium.
Also blushing a little at the fact you did genuinely just show him a shirt with both of your faces of it, deeming you both as a fans ‘parents’.
You go back to doing your actual job, moving to get a good angle, aiming to blend back into the background as you take more photos for the night.
Capturing the sway and jolts of his tassels as he sings. Getting a few shots that not only capture his energy but also his outfit perfectly.
You smile at yourself and at your work.
And you glance up as Harry joins in with Mitch while he absolutely shreds his guitar solo.
Sweat is beading on Harry’s chest and you’re all too aware how much money people would pay to see it from your angle. Thank god for Barcelona’s heat.
And, fuck, not only is it that. His arms look perfect as well. This outfit is really just showing as much of himself off as possible.
You change the settings on your camera hastily to alter the outcome of these next few shots.
He’d stepped away from the mic, turning to look at the band, mouthing something you couldn’t decipher.
He starts to lean down head getting closer to guitar. His tongue juts out…
Your eyes immediately pull back a little from your camera because, there no fucking way he’s about to let some kind of intrusive thought win here.
Time seems to slow. But not the movement of his tongue. It’s flicking fast, as if to mimic it playing the strings of his guitar. Or something like that anyway, because all you can think of is… well… something too inappropriate to even be entertaining in your head given he’s literally your boss.
You can hear the piercing screams around you, someone in the front shouting what the fuck loud enough you swear someone in the back of the stadium could’ve heard it.
You’re not even aware you bought your camera back up to your face and that you’d clicked the button a few times until it’s done and the moments over.
Harry’s laughing at himself, and Sarah is face palming at his lewd action. His smug smile after solidifies the fact he knows what the fuck he just did. And exactly the kind of effect it’s left on some people.
Just not aware you’re one of them…
Because you can’t deny the way you spent rest of the night with a nagging warmth between your legs. One that festered long after the moment was over.
After the show came to a close and you eventually ended up in your hotel room, freshly showered as you edited some of your favourite photos. Including the shots you’d captured of him and his guitar.
Which were fucking insane. You had just the right amount of contrast going on in them, and a certain degree of motion blur that indicated the movement his tongue was making.
The final product was amazing once you had edited it on photoshop. But you spent the remainder of the night in your hotel room ridiculously worked up. Left in bed toying with your clit lazily as you stared at the celling, acting like you didn’t have a specific person in your thoughts.
It got to the point in the next day where you stressed about what photos to show him. And whether or not that included the one you literally came to the thought of last night?
Usually you wouldn’t hesitate, especially since it looked incredible. But you were embarrassed internally. What would he think, or say? And could you even play off your sheer attraction to the image.
You placed your head in your hands with a groan, sat in the chair over by the window. You’re tired, and swear on your life your decision making is going to be impaired when he walks into your room.
Which you didn’t have much more time to stress much about it as a knock came to your door that you knew was him.
You rushed over to open it, finding him standing there, hair freshly washed and clad in much more clothing then you last saw him in. A plain white shirt and some gym shorts— that still made him look hot as fuck, without even trying?
He greets you with a good morning, voice a tad hoarse from last nights show. And he’s smiling as he hands you a cup, one you know is filled with hot chocolate. Just for you.
“I owe you like 100 hot chocolates for how many you’ve bought me just in this leg of the tour alone.” You laugh, letting him past you.
He glances at the unmade bed— you stopped making it a while after he started to come visit your room the morning after the show to pick which photos he liked best, and ones he also wanted edited. Sometimes he’d settle himself on it, legs crossed like a cute little kid.
“Think of it as a gift for all your talent. And putting up with me.” He chuckles, and plops himself down on the chair that’s opposite to the one you were sitting in.
So you follow suit, walking back over the your chair. Taking a small sip of the sweet liquid in your hands.
“Have any favourites so far?” He asks, taking a quick swig of his own drink— which you can only assume is hot tea.
Yes, you think, the one where you’re about to practically fuck your guitar strings with your tongue.
You substitute that for, “A few! The tassels were so fun to try and capture.”
You rotated the laptop screen to show him a cool shot you edited of him. It was a front on photo, his arms extended and washboard abs in their full fucking glory along with his tattoos.
He nods, a smile coming across his lips, crinkling the corners of his slightly tired eyes.
You showcase him a couple, all that he gives relentless praise on— regardless of if they had been edited or not. But you just want to show him your favourite.
You swallow as you stare at it on the screen of your macbook. Working up the courage to turn the screen to him as he waits cluelessly. Does he even know you took this?
“This one too…” you hesitate a little as you swivel the laptop around on your lap.
“Oh. I like this one a lot.” He says, nodding and then glancing up from the screen to your semi-flushed face.
“Didn’t know you took that.” He chuckles, shrugging and almost seeming… like he has more to say about this situation.
Like something is laying on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to be said.
You think he’s not going to though, after a beat of silence, you nod.
“Yea… what actually are you doing in this photo?” You nervous laugh, and wonder what kind of answer he’s going to provide.
He runs a hand through his curls, brows raised a little at your question.
“What did you think I was doing?” He quizzes, the corner of his mouth turning up.
“I- well it looked quite… everyone in the audience was going wild. Were you trying to be a tease?”
“I wasn’t! I swear. I was playing the guitar.” He confirmed, yet smirking like he knew there was a two-way perception of the event.
“With your tongue?” You sighed out a laugh.
“You still didn’t answer me. What did you think I was doing?” He backtracks, eyes watching you intensely as you’re both entering some rather dangerous, untouched territory.
You’re quiet again, and he raises his brows still expecting a response.
You flush under his gaze, hand coming to cover your eyes. “It just looked very…”
“Very…?”
“Inappropriate.” You laughed, feeling like you were emotionally torturing yourself by letting this situation happen.
“How so?” He continues to push, wanting to hear more. Secretly adoring the way you get all flustered about it. How badly he wants you to tell him exactly what the movement of his tongue reminded you of.
“It just— you know what I mean, Harry!” You say, now being the one trying to backtrack out of this entire situation. That in the end is still technically your own fault.
You distract yourself with other photos, going in and trying to find another possible contender for his new post on instagram.
“Don’t try and avoid the conversation, love.” He chuckles at your sudden shy demeanour.
“Harry.” You place your hand over your face again trying to mentally reset yourself. Put your thinking back in line.
“Cmon! I’m just curious.” He tries to brush it off, but if he has to resort to begging, he honestly wouldn’t hesitate.
“I know you are, but— it’s weird!” You whine, wanting to die at the fact you had let this happen in the first place.
“I promise I won’t judge.” He places his hand over his heart, face serious, like he was swearing it on his bloodline.
You thought about it a little longer. He clearly was not going to leave you alone if he didn’t get an answer. You could try and lie, but he already knows anyway. He just wants to hear you say it.
“You know, Harry. You just want to hear me say it.” You murmur, bringing up the chocolaty drink to your lips to distract yourself.
“Sure, maybe I do. I wanna confirm my suspicions.” He proposes, a small shrug of his shoulders. You place the drink back on the coaster, staring at him. Eventually caving.
“It— everyone definitely thought it looked like you were, uh, giving oral.” You rushed out, trying to now act as nonchalant as possible to avoid further questioning.
I didn’t work.
“So everyone including you?” He asked.
“Well… yea.” Your cheeks were pink, and he smiled at your flustered voice.
“Dirty thing.” He chuckled, and you almost breathed a sigh of relief thinking maybe you could move on and pretend as if this never happened, but he continues on.
“Had you a little worked up, did I?”
“May I touch on how unprofessional this conversation is?” You bring up, trying to save yourself. But it’s evident in your voice you hardly mean it. You are admittedly a little curious as to where he’s going with this. Equally, if not more embarrassed than anything, but still curious.
“I suppose you can, yes.” He nods.
“But may I bring up how you undressing me with your eyes yesterday was unprofessional? Because unless I’m insane, you definitely were.” He’s cocky, and overconfident with his accusation.
Not that it can be really labelled as an accusation, given he’s not wrong at all.
“I—“ you swallow, “Okay. Whatever. Point proven.”
He laughs at your surrender, shuffling forward on the chair.
“So you were— that’s the kind of stuff you were thinking about me?” He rests his elbows on his knees, watching you intently.
“You are really trying to get something out of me aren’t you? What do you want to hear me say?” You raise your brows, adrenaline coursing through you.
“Just want you to tell me the truth. Be honest with me, since we’re talking about being professional. I think that’s a good start.” He sounds so gentle yet firm, and your devouring this dominant kind of trait he’s showing you.
“Communication and honesty is very important when it comes to professionalism.”
Pleasure has been simmering in your stomach since he walked through the door, and his persistence is beginning to pay off, since you’re starting to let your guard down.
“So you want me to tell you how wet I got after your little stunt last night? That if I wasn’t your employee, after the show you would have found me in your dressing room bent over on the table.”
“Waiting for you to come in there, all sweaty and ready to strip that teeny fucking vest off, and put your mouth to use.”
He’s got a dusting of red over his own cheeks now, blood rushing to his cock as he realised he cracked you open now. Your dirty words spilling out of your mouth after holding back seemingly since last night.
“That what you would’ve done? Bent yourself over my dressing room table waiting for me like a pretty little post-show gift?”
“Maybe so.” You feed into it, watching as his eyes darken with desire.
He sighs out, standing up promptly, “Alright, darling. I’m gonna offer you something. You don’t have to agree, but if you do we can stop at any time. Okay?”
“What exactly are you offering?” You ask as leans his tall frame down to you, hands bracketed on your hips.
“For me to pick you up, put you on that bed and strip you until I can bury my head between your legs.” He stated, matter of factly.
Your thighs are shaking so hard you’re clenching them together— clit throbbing at the pressure.
You can only look up at him and nod, to which he doesn’t take as an answer.
“Baby, need you to use your words. Tell me what you want.”
“Yes, Harry. Want that please.” You whine, very quickly becoming delusional at his close proximity.
He grunts as he picks you up, his arms firm around your body and he carry’s you the few feet to the bed. His lips hot as they suddenly come in contact with your jaw.
He pushes your legs open with his thigh, making you moan and push your hips forward.
“Needy girl.” He whispers, voice dirty and hot near your ear as he sucks on the skin below it.
His hands cascade down your body, finding the waistband of your sweatpants and tugging it down.
“Please, please touch me.” You’re wild, bucking your hips up. Wanting to get his tongue on you so bad.
He chuckles at your sudden spiral, how quickly you’ve unravelled before him. Truly like a present, all laid out waiting just for him.
He palms his hand over your damp front, “Soaking through already, fuckin’ hell.”
You groan as he rubs a pressured circle on your fabric-covered clit.
“Want to tell me who got you so wet?” He coos, slowly moving his fingers over you as he waits for an answer.
You give it to him shamelessly, “You. Want you so badly.”
He’s over the moon to finally have you like this. Because it became apparent rather quickly the crush he’d developed on you since you were hired. And he would be lying if he said he hadn’t fucked his fist at the thought of getting to touch you.
“Oh, you’re being so good for me now. Because I’ve got my hand between your pretty legs I bet.”
You cant even respond as he slides your drenched underwear down away from your tingling core.
He audibly groans at the sight of your bare, glistening pussy. Watching as you squirm under his stare.
“Jesus fuck, Y/N. How long have you been hiding this gorgeous cunt from me?”
“Too long.” You whimper.
His fingers slid through you, and he gathered up your arousal to play with your clit. Relishing the way it slides under his fingertips.
You were clenching around nothing as he gently rolled your clit between calloused fingers. Playing with it until you were a mess. Moaning and grinding up against his fingers. Begging for what he’d promised earlier.
“Your mouth, Harry. Need it. Anywhere.”
“S’that why your little hole is clenching so hard? Like it’s begging for me.” He watched, mesmerised as your hole pulsed around nothing, and leaked more clear arousal.
You look so delicious to him. And he took a moment to appreciate the fact you were about to let him clean up all that arousal pooling at your hole
He sunk down between your legs very slowly. Distracting himself a few times with mouthing over your fabric covered breasts.
Eventually making it there, so he could blow over your clit, letting you squirm at the teasing stimulation. You smelt amazing too, your sweet tangy scent making his mouth water.
He was grabbing at his cock, pushing at it trying to relieve pressure down there as he peppered kisses along your inner thigh.
“Stop teasing, H. Please I— fuck.” You hissed as he bit the seam of skin of your thigh.
“Cant handle it huh? Are you gonna come before I even get my tongue on you.”
“Want to finish around your mouth.” You plead with him. And he shakes his head with a laugh, anticipating your reaction as he leans forward to drag a long stroke through your slit.
Your whole body shakes with a moan. His velvety, hot tongue immediately leaving you a wreck.
“Harryyy…” You cry out, bucking your hips into his face.
“Gonna ruin your cunt, darling.” He murmurs into you, and you know it’s true with the way your hole is clenching.
He sucks your clit into his mouth before placing fast strokes over it. Flicking and rolling it between his tongue and lips.
The sounds of him lapping up your pussy are echoing through the room, further fuelling the fire that’s started in you.
Your whole jaw goes lax as he moves further down, gliding over your hole— pushing his tongue past your entrance.
“Fuck!” You moan, hips jolting, causing his hands to slide up and hold them into place.
He slides it into you as far as he can, nose bumping your clit. Making you realise very quickly that you’re going to finish around his mouth.
He moans into you, again the vibrations makes you writhe in his tight grip. “I- Harry- more!”
It’s making your whole body shake, and he’s pressed so far into you that it’s all you can feel. And it’s obvious that you’re about to come, just with the way your cunt is pulsing around his mouth.
“Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck. Harry, please, I’m gonna come!” You felt the burning spark fly through you, hitting you like a truck when his tongue curled and rocked inside you.
He’s humming and pressing himself so close you genuinely think he can’t breathe. And you realise immediately when the rubber band in snapped inside of you.
It gushed through your whole body, making you moan and cry in his grip. He couldn’t even explain the feeling of having you clenching around his tongue. It almost made him finish in his pants.
He lapped up every single drop he could. But he didn’t stop.
Your clit was so sensitive as he came back up to it with the same intensive pace.
You tried to push him off, “be a good girl, baby, give me another one.”
“So sensitive, Harry.” You whined, hand threading into his soft hair.
“Y’can take it.” He states, going back to sucking on your clit, and the outside of your entrance.
It made you a mess. A proper fucking mess.
You legs were being spread wide by the palm of his hands, and you were almost crying at how sensitive your pussy was.
You were always a five-minute-scroll-break kind of girl when it came to masturbation. So this came as a whole shock to your body. And it was so fucking hot from his perspective.
All he could hear was your filthy fucking whines, begging him one minute to stop and the next to go faster. And he was going insane at how sensitive your little hole was.
That was all he could feel. The clenching of your cunt, the absolute shaking mess your body was becoming.
His tongue flicked over your clit, just as you imagined he would after seeing him last night. And it was getting to messy, your arousal absolutely coating his mouth and chin.
“I-“ a deep suck of your clit, “I’m gonna fucking come!”
You writhed the whole way through your orgasm. Fucking into his face like it was a toy, grinding into it so hard your sure he was completely consumed by you.
And as you came down from the high, still shaking, he cleaned up down there again. Too good to waste, was his thought process. ‘You tasted like a dream’ you’re pretty sure you hear him mutter against you at some point.
His thumbs run over the dips of your hips to bring you back down to earth.
“Good girl, Baby. Took my mouth so fucking well.” He presses a final kiss on your clit as he stood up, your hands dragging up his back did.
“Feeling a little better too, i hope.”
“Yes. So good. H.” You panted, still in a bit of a daze.
“Next time,” he peppered a kiss on you shoulder, “tell me when you’re feeling all worked up okay.”
You nodded, hands sliding to rest in his hair.
“Or by all means, lay yourself out in my dressing room so I can make make come like you deserve.” He smiles at your little nod, still so out of it.
“My little gift, hm?” He coos, stroking a gentle hand down your face.
And he knows he’d do this moment a thousand times over with you. Just to see that smile flash over your lips.
———
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marjorierose · 1 month
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The Les Mis fandom doesn't much like "Turning," the song sung by the women of Paris on the morning after the barricade. It's easy to understand why. It undersells the seriousness of the revolutionaries--"they were schoolboys, never held a gun"--not likely even if you don't take the previous revolution into account. "Nothing changes, nothing ever will" is not particularly inspiring after all that talk about revolution. It's a pretty hopeless song about history being cyclical, in a musical that otherwise is about glorifying people's efforts to create change.
But I don't think we have to take "Turning" as a truer statement of values than we do "Stars." It's sung by characters in the story, although we don't know their names. And as something diegetic, as a portrayal of people reacting to that failure, it really worked for me on this latest viewing. Think of the last deeply disappointing election result, and then think of the last time there was a major disaster in your city if you've experienced that, and then imagine those things combined such that everyone fighting for positive change had been killed, and the attitude of the women makes a lot more sense. "Nothing changes, nothing ever will": in some circumstances you disavow hope because you just can't stand trying to keep it, because giving up hurts less, because if you see the future as walking in perpetual circles at least you understand where you're going.
Lately I have been remembering the bewildering early days of the uprising in 2020 here in the Twin Cities, the boarded-up windows with messages spray-painted on them ("minority-owned business," "people live upstairs") and the police casually macing groups of people at busy intersections or train stations. Even more than that, I've been remembering the morning after the 2021 municipal election, when police reform failed, the mayor was reelected and granted more power than ever, and the city council that had promised to remake public safety in the city got replaced by the most conservative council in many years. Activists were getting together just to grieve and to vent, and those Zoom vent sessions were not really enough for the immense feelings of loss. It's different from, or additive to, the grief and the survivor's guilt of "Empty Chairs." It's having your hope deflate because the thing you were hoping for just isn't there to look to anymore, and then it's reforming yourself around its absence. The crucial moment goes by unused and you don't know when another one will arise. It's easy to get cynical. The future looks like a treadmill: minutes into hours and the hours into years. Rien n'est changé; rien ne changera. I can't think of a single other song about that feeling.
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kiwinatorwaffles · 28 days
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minecraft — legend of the white eyes
using the prompts in @redwinterroses’s fic writing challenge from… uh… 2021 LMAO whatever i’m late to the party but it’s ok!! i decided to go with minecraft because i love the lore :3
this is a full hotbar fic! it is exactly 579 words, as a full hotbar would have 579 items.
***
you are being watched.
or, at least you think so.
you can’t confirm anything just yet, but there always seems to be eyes on you. a quiet observer. you never see it, but you’re certain it’s there.
every so often, while mining, you pass by a three-by-three tunnel dug straight through a cave wall. you hear footsteps. when you approach, they stop. you cautiously place down a torch. there are no mobs. but there is something, somewhere, watching your every move. a chill runs down your spine as you stand still, waiting for it to appear and attack you. it never does.
each time, the mining trip ends with you digging your way to the surface as quickly as possible.
at first, when bringing it up to alex, she calls you ridiculous for suggesting so.
“of course we’re being watched,” she says. “there’s a billion monsters out there watching us every single night. that’s like saying a block is square.”
but it’s different, you swear. it’s not like any other mob. it’s something more.
“more what?”
you’re not so sure. maybe it’s the footsteps. or the tunnel in the wall. or the fact that it never attacked you. you always see a flash of white eyes. you assumed it was a stray the first few times, but you later realize that it isn’t. it always seems to be the same entity, over and over again.
but that can’t be possible. mobs despawn after time. villagers stick near their homes. you and alex are the only players.
at least, you think so.
that changes when alex bursts through the door the next day, eyes wide open when frenzy.
“you’re right,” she huffs. “there’s something out there. i saw him.”
“him?” you ask.
“i’m actually not sure. i only saw an outline of a man through the fog. but i know it looked like us.”
a player.
you both barricade the doors in your house afterwards, even though you know it won’t do anything against a player, who can destroy like you can. you’re not sure why you’re so scared. you’ve never seen alex this scared, either.
thankfully, the next day is sunny. you visit the village first thing in the morning, asking if they know anything about what you and alex saw. they can’t answer, instead referring you to the library. you spend the new few hours carefully combing through books, searching for any mention of caves, fog, or white eyes.
there’s only log recording strange occurrences in the world. trees without leaves. pyramids in the ocean. holes in mountains. but no white eyes. the sun has already set, so you thank the villagers and make your way back home. you’ll ask another village tomorrow.
the fog has settled in with the darkened skies. you quicken your pace, sprinting down the path.
you freeze once you spot a dark figure with glowing white eyes in the distance.
he doesn’t move. neither do you. he carries a glistening sword. his clothes are tattered and torn. his gaze pierces into your chest.
you barely see him, but even within the fog, you realize that you recognize his face.
it’s yours.
he says something, but you can’t hear it. a chill runs down your spine.
he steps forward. you blink.
when you open your eyes, he’s gone, like a shadow in the night.
as you stare into the empty mist, you finally hear his voice echo in your mind:
why are you here?
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account-name · 10 months
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happy late barricade day!! here's a redraw of my very first piece of les mis fanart. i know this is super late now but tbf i started it on barricade day so shh i get points for that
original (2021) under the cut:
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cliozaur · 5 months
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While the barricade is still holding on, Hugo decides that this is his last chance to write about other barricades which he ordered to be taken by siege in June 1848. To make sense of what is going on, I read a chapter about Hugo in Jonathan Beecher’s Writers and Revolution: Intellectuals and the French Revolution of 1848 (2021). “Victor Hugo never forgot what he saw and did between June 22–26. Unlike our other writers, he participated in the fighting, and he did so on the side of the government.” Sigh.
This is where his lengthy explanations about the differences between uprisings and insurrections from 4.10.2 become relevant. He genuinely believed that everything that was going on in February 1848, before the abdication of Louise Philippe was revolution (insurrection), and what followed in June was uprising against the Republic. It was “a revolt of the people against itself.”  
The problem was: people had legitimate causes to rebel. “Once settled in the Assembly, Hugo was immediately confronted by the question of the National Workshops. Like many on both the right and the left, he believed the Workshops were a disaster. They produced nothing and were “an enormous waste of resources”… he urged that they be closed… He apparently believed that by voting to dissolve the National Workshops, he was not voting to shelve the question of unemployment. He was wrong.” Moreover, when workers erected the barricades and the confrontation began, “Hugo seems to have convinced himself that the best way to limit bloodshed was to defeat the insurrection rapidly. For the next three days he became a tiger, “haranguing insurgents, storming barricades, taking prisoners, and somehow remaining alive.”
According to an account from a member of the National Guard, Hugo was acting suicidally: “This man... was M. Victor Hugo, a representative for Paris. He was unarmed and nonetheless he led us; and while we took cover behind houses, he alone kept to the middle of the street. Twice I tugged at his sleeve, telling him: “You’ll get yourself killed!” “That is why I am here.”” But this was because he believed that he was acting under divine protection.
During these days, Hugo was not able to contact his wife and his mistress. He heard rumours that his house was burnt down, but finally found out that it was not true: “When he finally got back to the Place des Vôsges, he found fourteen bullet holes around carriage entrance, but everything in the house was intact: rugs, furniture, silverware, wall hangings, ancient swords and muskets, and above all his manuscripts. A leader of the insurgents, a school teacher and a reader of Hugo, had even led tours of the house for other insurgents.” The last detail is heartbreaking.
In this chapter, Hugo conveys his point of view on the events of June 1848, infusing them with symbolic images of two barricades: both quite eerie and ominous. He is exploiting his talent of horror writer again: “The Saint-Antoine barricade was the tumult of thunders; the barricade of the Temple was silence. The difference between these two redoubts was the difference between the formidable and the sinister. One seemed a maw; the other a mask.”
The sad thing is that after this chapter with its context in Hugo’s biography, it is hard to read his depiction of other barricades from other time without thinking of him as a hypocrite. This is Hugo — an embodiment of controversy.
Siege of the barricade during the June days of 1848:
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byima · 4 months
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December Prompt 3: Miss
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Dec 3, 2021
Percy wakes up on the couch with Charlie spread eagle on his chest. Her head is tilted up, like she fell asleep looking at him. Her mouth is ajar, the dark circle below a reminder that she is her father’s daughter.
Annabeth is in the kitchen making breakfast. He can hear her moving around behind him, and after laying the baby down and barricading her in with throw pillows and blankets, he joins her.
“You’re making breakfast?” His inquiry is tentative, he watches her hurriedly slice a banana into thin rounds.
‘Yeah.” When he doesn’t say anything she adds, “It’s instant oats, asshole.” The microwave dings and she steps away to pull it open, retrieving the bowl of the hot aforementioned oats and setting it next to the saucer she’s using as a cutting board.
He’s up before her on any given day, but for the last few days, Charlie has refused to sleep without being rocked and held. Despite her small, eight-month-old body, she does call the shots, at least with him. That means he's walking up and down the hall in their apartment, singing whatever song he can think of at 4am. Last night, it had been Nickelback.
Annabeth picks up the plate and adds the sliced bananas to the bowl of cooling oats. It makes a small clink when she sets it down before she moves to the refrigerator.
“You want some?” She calls over her shoulder as she reaches for the blueberries.
“No.” He grabs a spoon and helps himself to a bite.
When she drops some washed blueberries into the mix, he helps himself to another bite.
She picks up the bowl and takes the spoon from him, turning to lean back against the counter as she eats her breakfast.
He steps closer to her as her mouth closes around the spoon.
She doesn't react when he cages her in, her feet between his, his arms braced on the counter behind her. She offers him a bite of her food though, which he takes.
“I missed you.”
He cocks his head; there's a bit of oat in the corner of his mouth. Her eyes focus there, he notices and swipes at the spot with his thumb but misses.
“I missed you,” she repeats, running her spoon down his center, her knuckles brush the tie of his pajama bottoms.
“No…” He appears stricken.
"Maybe don't fall asleep on the couch next time.”
"I’m gonna cry.”
He lowers his head to her neck but she uses the bowl in her hand to push his chest away.
"I'm heading to work.” She sets the mostly eaten breakfast to the side.
He knows that. She already has her coat on. Her legs look a mile long in her trousers and block-heeled boots. Those boots click against the floor when she steps toward the kitchen table where she'd set her messenger bag earlier.
“Hey,” he catches her wrist. “We can-”
“I can't talk right now,” she lifts the bag to her shoulder, “but I'll be upstairs, tonight, around 10?”
He follows her and she turns, brushing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Let me know if you'll be able to make it.”
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mariacallous · 5 months
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One way to understand the latest round of fighting between Israelis and Palestinians—to distinguish it from previous rounds—is to see it through the lens of historical trauma. For both sides, the events of the past 10 days have evoked memories of their worst national suffering. For Israelis and Palestinians, this war has surfaced fears, always lurking just under the skin, that history could possibly repeat itself.
Let’s start with Israelis, of which I am one. For many of us, the first reports of the slaughter taking place near the Gaza border on the morning of Oct. 7 came from Israelis barricaded in their rooms with their children. One mother phoned a television anchor and pleaded for help on a live broadcast. Others made similar appeals on social media. Many of these conversations were played and replayed on television and radio in the hours and days to come, as the death toll rose: first to scores and then hundreds.
Pundits quickly dubbed the Hamas attack Israel’s 9/11. The total number killed, more than 1,300, is the population equivalent of more than 40,000 Americans. Israelis have our own library of trauma: the battles near those same kibbutzim around Gaza during the 1948 war; the tense weeks leading up to the 1967 war; the surprise attack in the 1973 war.
But for many Israelis, the Hamas attack evoked the most chilling memory of all: the Holocaust. It was reflected in the images of armed men going door to door to kill Jews, of parents cowering over their children to keep them silent, of families pleading for help and getting no response. Part of Israel’s creation story is the idea that Jews would no longer find themselves defenseless, that a modern state and a strong military would act as a guarantee against further exterminations. For many long hours on Oct. 7, the guarantor seemed to be missing in action.
To be sure, historical analogies are risky. Plenty of Israelis leaders have invoked the Holocaust to justify misplaced political goals, cheapening its significance. But Israelis weren’t the only ones to see parallels. A few days after the Hamas attack, U.S. President Joe Biden said: “This attack has brought to the surface painful memories and the scars left by a millennia of antisemitism and genocide of the Jewish people.”
Palestinians have their own trauma, beginning with the Nakba—the catastrophe that coincided with Israel’s founding in 1948 and was intertwined with it. Approximately 700,000 Palestinians were displaced from their homes and became refugees, many forcibly displaced by the nascent Israeli army. Most Palestinians in Gaza today are the descendants of those refugees.
Last week, when Israel ordered more than 1 million Palestinians to move to the southern part of Gaza ahead of an Israeli invasion, what the world saw was a humanitarian crisis in the making. But for Palestinians, it was also an echo of that historical trauma—and, quite possibly, the harbinger of a new Nakba. Israel pledged to allow Palestinians to return to their homes once troops routed Hamas in the north. (Already, some 3,000 Palestinians have died in bombardments.) But the promise would surely have rung false to anyone steeped in the memory of 1948.
I’ve witnessed the way in which the Nakba is a live issue in the Palestinian consciousness—not just a historical event—while working for years to prevent the eviction of Palestinian refugee families from Sheikh Jarrah and other neighborhoods of East Jerusalem, by government-backed settlers. Initially, individual families were targeted. More recently, entire communities with hundreds of families have become at risk of displacement.
The issue came to a head in 2021, after Itamar Ben-Gvir, then a lawmaker from Israel’s far-right (and currently minister of national security), opened a parliamentary office in the neighborhood. That May, violence erupted between Israel and Gaza, spreading to East Jerusalem, the West Bank, and Israel itself, where Palestinian citizens of Israel clashed with Jewish neighbors in several cities and towns.
The force of the Palestinian reaction surprised me. Never before had pending evictions in East Jerusalem sparked violence. Why had the issue of Sheikh Jarrah suddenly become so pivotal?
The answer quickly became evident. When individual Palestinian families were targeted for eviction, it was perceived as a violation of international law and a humanitarian outrage. But when an entire Palestinian community was targeted, as in the case of Sheikh Jarrah, it reopened the most painful wounds in the Palestinian consciousness.
Sheikh Jarrah is not an isolated case. Palestinians are facing forced displacement in other parts of East Jerusalem and in a growing number of communities in the occupied West Bank.
For years I had been told by Palestinian colleagues that the Nakba was not just an event but an ongoing process. It took the convulsive violence of 2021, and the increasingly blatant expulsions in the West Bank, for me to realize how close to the surface it was for many Palestinians. The Nakba is not the exclusive trauma of the 1948 refugees and their descendants. Like the Holocaust for Jews, it is the emotional inheritance of all Palestinians.
On the morning of Oct. 7, many Israelis, briefly but powerfully, came face to face with the unspeakable horrors endured by their parents and grandparents in the Holocaust. Days later, Palestinians in Gaza packed their most precious belongings and fled their homes, much as an earlier generation fled the war in 1948 that started all this.
Can either side recognize the other’s historical trauma? Even in ordinary times, Israelis and Palestinians have found it excruciatingly difficult.
For years, it was virtually a consensus in Israel that the Nakba never took place. Israelis accused the Palestinians of weaponizing this fiction in order to delegitimize Israel. Only recently has mainstream Israel begun to acknowledge the incontrovertible facts of the Nakba. This latest war will surely set back the effort.
Among some Palestinians, there is a trend to deny the historicity of the Holocaust, to claim that it never happened. For those Palestinians who acknowledge the horrific crimes of the Nazis, many feel that the creation of Israel was an attempt to redress those crimes at their expense. Israelis largely view these claims as a polemical construct designed to delegitimize Israel and a manifestation of Palestinian antisemitism.
So that’s where Israelis and Palestinians are as this war enters another week—triggered by our own traumas and reluctant to recognize the other side’s. When this war comes to an end, the chasm of mutual denial between us will be wider than ever.
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autisticspirk · 10 months
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happy (late) barricade day (again). I said I couldn't make anything new. I lied. This is a redraw of this from 2021. 🪑
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aronarchy · 5 months
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The Youth Move Forward
The Palestinians feel betrayed and abandoned by the world. People only remember them when there’s an ongoing genocidal campaign, and even then, everybody is busy talking about how “complicated” the situation is. I’m not sure if they have anyone to trust, including their own “leadership.”
The Shabab, the youth fighting in the streets, the kids erecting barricades against the police and setting trash bins on fire, are completely alienated from any form of political force; they work in small informal groups, and many of them don’t give a fuck about politics at all. They come from the far edges of Palestinian society in 48, the direct consequence of the Zionist attempt to reduce this society to internal chaos. They are gangsters, drug dealers, outlaws of any kind, youth without a future from the poorest villages, towns, and neighborhoods of 48 Palestine, the lumpenproletariat, and—the most important thing—they are completely uncontrollable. The traditional politics of organizations, political parties, respectable religious leaders, and NGOs means nothing to them.
The new generation in Palestine has nothing left to lose. Even according to Israel’s infamous Shin Bet, they really are ungovernable. Whenever a riot or an uprising gets out of control, the authorities and security agencies look for “responsible” adults, respected “community leaders” to pacify the situation. But when you invest so much power in breaking a society from the inside to such an extent, you create an enemy that you can’t negotiate with, because he has zero fear of you and nothing to rely on or hope for. There is no going back to normal.
And they are being completely vilified. The media propaganda machine treats them as nothing but criminals, terrorists, savages, bloodthirsty pogromists, and they don’t get to have a voice. The riots are presented as nothing more than an outburst of violent anger from some hooligans, with the idea that our police force, intelligence agencies, and prison system will deal with them. It looks as though everybody decided to continue to push them as low as possible, to sweep them under the rug, to treat them as nothing more than monstrous murderers until the next outburst. Zionist apartheid is also a class system, and they hate poor Palestinians the most.
The uprising is also, of course, a form of class warfare, beyond the regular scope of ethnic conflict. I’ve read somewhere that during the first intifada, in its early days, many of the youth who revolted in Gaza and beyond weren’t very political and most of the attacks were directed against richer Palestinians. This goes way back to the great Arab revolt of 1936, when many of the attacks involved the Falahis, the peasant population of Palestine, acting against the urban elite. This dimension of the class struggle within Palestinian society is always erased from history, in favor of a more simplified ethnic conflict of Arabs against Jews.
This class struggle is always pushed aside once the big parties, the militarist factions, manage to take over; the first intifada, for example, was shut down by the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO). It was quickly transformed from a popular mass struggle to a top-down controlled opposition in the hands of a few corrupted bureaucrats. As we all know, once the militias and the professional revolutionaries take over, the people become spectators in their own “liberation,” and the mass popular appeal of the resistance is lost. The PLO and Fatah crushed the intifada in order to get the Oslo accords going, which divided the West Bank into small cantons and introduced the so-called Palestinian Authority. Fatah became the de facto long arm of Israel and the occupation, managing the apartheid from within. A similar (though not identical) process is taking place now with Hamas, in my opinion.
While I was composing this, the focus shifted completely to rockets striking Israeli cities from Gaza. Nine people in Israel died from Hamas rockets—including Palestinians, like in the village of Dahamash near Ramle. A few Hamas rockets reached as far as the West Bank. Rockets also came from Lebanon. The protests largely waned, and we don’t see large riots anymore. One can’t help but feel that Hamas and the militarist factions interrupted the birth of a popular, mass movement in the streets, in the inner cities of the occupation, which could have been capable of creating real damage to the stability of the state.
We can clearly see who benefits from this. The anarchy within Israeli cities is over, and Israel can sell the same old story to the world about us fighting Islamist jihadist terrorists who are shooting rockets at our cities. It’s a much more convenient story, and much easier to deal with. Perhaps the strategy of weakening the secular revolutionary Marxist fronts of the 1980s and strengthening Hamas has paid off. Reactionary ideologies are easier to control, and whenever needed, they can take over the struggle and kill mass movements.
In this system, everybody plays his part. The left does what the left always, historically, does in times of social upheaval: try to pacify the resistance and absorb its energy in order to direct it towards more “acceptable” (i.e., ineffective) terrain. The same old outdated tactics, boring predictable demonstrations, “non-violent” nonsense, and empty talks about shallow “co-existence,” peace, and democracy. There’s nothing really to expect from what’s left of the Israeli Jewish left, but even the Arab political parties have proved to be completely disconnected from what’s happening in the streets.
The communist “radical leftist” Hadash party from the Joint Arab List and the Ra’am party both got into the Knesset (the Israeli parliament) in the elections of March 23. They urged people to protest lawfully and refrain from violence. No wonder the youth are completely alienated from them. For 48 Palestinians, the Arab parties in the Knesset are the same thing that the Fatah and the PA are for 67 (West Bank) Palestinians: another face of the occupation, sellouts, collaborators, conflict managers, a tool of pacification for the regime. Just like Syriza in Greece or Podemos in Spain, they appear in mass movements to appropriate the language and the energy of the people revolting in order to channel all of it back into acting within the system—and of course, in the moment of truth, they will completely betray people. I doubt they have any credibility left now.
It has almost become cliché to mention this, but the problem of the Palestinians is not just the far-right assholes, but Zionism. Israeli racist mobs are the direct consequence of a country established on deeply racist roots—a settler colonial project built on the ruins of villages and the driving away of the indigenous population, of a Jewish supremacist state—at the expanse of everyone else. Israel is probably one of the worst examples of a nation state as a way of solving things for oppressed people. It’s a lot easier for Israelis to get disgusted by far-right hooligans attacking a Palestinian, while the IDF’s genocidal campaign in Gaza (let alone the violent birth of this state) either goes unquestioned or is completely accepted. The IDF is the “people’s army,” and it is putting the platform of “Death to Arabs” into practice more efficiently than any grassroots fascist ever could.
Right now, the Gaza Strip is completely in ruins. Military airplanes drop bombs on clinics, a media tower fell down, entire neighborhoods are erased. The situation is unbearable. As I’m writing this, about 250 people have been killed and thousands are displaced. Gaza has been under siege since 2007; it was a hell on earth before the current massacre, the biggest open prison on earth, and now it has reached a situation of human catastrophe. This is mainstream Zionism, not the extremist edges.
(2021-05-29)
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hostilecityshowdown · 9 months
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"25 YEARS AGO THIS WEEK! #CactusJack took on Wing Kanemura in a wild Barbed Wire Spider Net Deathmatch. Watch the fun family highlights at https://youtu.be/Cywi_p9swlU via my new YouTube channel. Like and subscribe..and have a nice day!"
Originally posted by Mick Foley on May 11, 2021.
The Barbed Wire Barricade Spider Net Glass Crash Deathmatch took place at FMW Fighting Creation '96 on May 5th, 1996. The event was held at the Kawasaki Stadium in Kawasaki, Kanagawa, Japan. Watch the full match here.
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transgenderer · 8 months
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The Yemenite Children Affair (Hebrew: פרשת ילדי תימן, romanized: Parshat Yaldei Teiman) refers to the disappearance of mainly Yemenite Jewish babies and toddlers of immigrants to the newly founded state of Israel from 1948 to 1954. The number of affected ranges from 1,000[1] to 5,000.[2]
The majority of immigrants arriving in Israel during this period were from Yemen, with considerable numbers coming from Iraq, Morocco, Tunisia, Libya and the Balkans.[3] According to low estimates, one in eight children of Yemenite families disappeared.[4] Hundreds of documented statements made over the years by the parents of these infants allege that their children were removed from them.
Conditions in the maabarot (tent cities) were harsh. There was poor hygiene and widespread disease. The authorities decided it would be best to move the babies to separate (concrete-built) houses. Older children were often moved to a temporary care of foster families.[14] Furthermore, children who caught an infectious disease had to be quarantined: moved to special wards in other hospitals. Hospital staff would often discourage contact between parents and children in fear of further spread of disease.[15] Many babies did eventually die. And in those cases they were often buried in haste without waiting for the parents; due to poor communication it would often take days or more for the parents to be notified and come, and the hospitals did not have the resources to keep the bodies for that long.[16]
This resulted in many cases where information about children was lost.
The mystery surrounding the disappearance of these children has led to the claim that while many children were recorded as having died, in fact they were either kidnapped or were adopted by rich Ashkenazi Jews in Israel or abroad. The affair has been widely covered in the Israeli media through the decades, and so far four official investigating committees have been established to investigate the claims. The committees have investigated many hundreds of cases, and determined that the vast majority of children actually died and only in a minority of cases they did not find enough evidence to determine what really happened.[6]
The peak of the public outcry on the matter occurred in 1994 when Yemenite Rabbi Uzi Meshulam established an "armed sect" of radical Yemenite Jews in his garden, who barricaded themselves in his home and violently resisted Israeli law enforcement while demanding that the Israeli government establish a State Commission of Inquiry to examine the matter.[17] Meshulam's efforts led to the creation of the Kedmi Commission the following year. The third commission of its kind, it set out to reinvestigate the disappearances.
Against the background of a lawsuit by the families of Yemeni immigrants, in February 2021 the government approved a decision to "express sorrow" over the Jewish Yemeni children affair and the compensation of the families, and that the state "recognizes the suffering of the families". Families whose child's fate is unknown to them will receive up to NIS 200,000. Families who have not received real-time information about the death of their children - including the death itself, its circumstances or the place of burial - will receive NIS 150,000 each. Only families whose case has been tried in the committees of inquiry are entitled to compensation.[33][34]
man israeli history is crazy huh
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I have 23 midterm exams to grade on this blessed Tuesday June 6, so my intended Barricade Day fic will be finished Not Today. this being the case, here are my previous Barricade Day fics for your convenience:
2020: Souviens-Toi De Moi
On the second anniversary of the June Rebellion, Marius feels someone calling him.
2021: Cats Are Nice
The cat is the erratum of the mouse. The mouse, plus the cat, is the proof of creation revised and corrected.
Joly chats a bit with Death about cats and philosophy while they wait for the rest of Les Amis to turn up in the aftermath of the barricade.
2022: Tomorrow, The Future
Combeferre and Prouvaire talk about revolution and civilization on the night before Lamarque's funeral.
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justiceamberheard · 2 years
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Amber Heard’s testimony, part 8.
Day 16. Day 17. cross examination
Amber explains why Depp is not a victim of doemstic abuse.
the pictures that were shown in court: 1  2     3
Amber expalins why she didn’t seek medical treatment after Australia.
more pictures.
Amber sent pictures of Depp passed out to her friend Raquel.
Amber says she donated/pledged 7m to charities. She consider those words synonyms. Heard says: "I have not been able to fulfil those obligations yet." Heard says the reason she hasn't yet donated the full amount was because Depp sued her. She told the court: "I fully intend to honour all of my pledges. I would love for him to stop suing me so I can".
Amber agrees that their relationship started in October 2011.
The lawyer shows a knife Heard gave Depp while he was allegedly abusing her in 2012.Heard says: "I wasn't worried he was going to stab me with it that's for certain."Asked if this is the same knife she gave Depp as a present, Heard says: "This is the same knife that I gave him as a present in 2012."
The lawyer asks about the sexual assault in Australia.
Amber denies throwing a bottle at Depp and cutting his finger off.
Heard's texts read in part, "I don't know if I'll ever be able to change."
The pictures of love diary. The note reads: "I am sorry I can get crazy, I am sorry I hurt you. Like you I can get wicked when I am hurt, when I feel provoked, shattered." 
pictures:  1    2    3
 Heard testifies, "I think it's important in any relationship to apologize when you're trying to move past fights." She goes on to say, "I tried everything ... I couldn't change my relationship."
A picture of the bed. (December 2015). according to his lawyers allegedly with a knife.
She asks if Heard stopped taking drugs and alcohol amid concerns about Depp's use of substances.Heard replies: "I did not use drugs when I was with Johnny, in his presence, aside from the times I testified about with you." She asks: "So you planned to have drugs at your wedding to someone you characterise as a drug addict?"Heard replies: "To be fair we were going to have separate parties as I mentioned, so a bridal party before this. The schedule ended up changing quite a bit and this was a draft sent before, there were a lot of changes made."
Amber explains the text messages. (running away from the troubles).
Heard says that it looks to her as though the picture on the left has a vanity light while the one on the right does not.The lawyer asks: "Isn't it true you just edited these photographs?""No I have never edited a photograph," Heard says.
pictures from Bahamas December 30, 2015.
Amber says her op-ed is not about him, but about what happened after. The only person who thinks that was about johnny, was johnny.
Amber says there’s a smear campaign against her. The lawyer asks whether she has proof of it. Amber responds: Just look me up and you'll see. 
The court is now shown a tweet Amber Heard sent to Johnny Depp's lawyer in March 2021.
Johnny Depp's lawyer Camille Vasquez asks Amber Heard whether she enjoys being a mother. Heard has a one-year-old girl.Heard replies: "More than anything".
Depp's lawyer Camille Vasquez asks Heard: "You said on that recording you hit Mr Depp?"Heard says: "Yes."Ms Vasquez says: "You accused him of being a baby?"Heard says yes, she called him a baby after he hit her and pushed past her while she was barricading the door.We are played another piece of audio that seems to be from later in the couple's argument about the bathroom door. Ms Vasquez says: "You punched the door into his head didn't you?"Heard says she did not, but that Depp had pushed the door into her toes, hurting her, and she responded on instinct.
Depp's lawyer Camille Vasquez asks why Heard roles her eyes and "sniggers" during the video. She asks: "Do you think it's funny to hit your husband in the head? Is there something amusing about punching your husband in the jaw?"Heard says no, there is nothing funny about that, but says she was sat with a large group of lawyers at the time, who she says were rolling their eyes at her and laughing. (but that’s okay for Depp smiling, smirking, being rude to the lawyer, gotcha!)
Heard says no, as she was not the one who had leaked the scoop on her divorce, going on to say: "If I had wanted to leak things about Johnny, I could have done it in a much more successful way, a bigger way over the years."
Johnny Depp's lawyer Camille Vasquez refers us to an article in which it is claimed Heard assaulted Ms van Ree at a Seattle airport in 2009. Ms Vasquez says this shows Depp is not the first partner she has assaulted.Heard says the article, which claims Heard "struck" her then-girlfriend, "was planted after I got a restraining order against Johnny". She says it is another example of what she calls "the smear campaign" she claims Depp and his team launched against her after she filed for divorce.Heard goes on to say: "I've never assaulted Mr Depp or anyone else I've been romantically linked to, ever."
the redirect:
Heard says she saw an ear, nose and throat specialist in 2016/2017, and says she has "a significant amount of trouble breathing at night". She tells the court: "I have been putting off getting surgery for it."
Bredehoft asks Heard why she believes Depp cannot look at her. Heard: Because he's guilty. He knows he's lying. Why can't he look at me? I survived that man and i'm here and I'm able to look at him.
the end!
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xxsycamore · 1 year
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𝘖𝘛𝘏𝘌𝘙 𝘍𝘈𝘕𝘋𝘖𝘔𝘚 𝘔𝘈𝘚𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘓𝘐𝘚𝘛
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featuring works written after July 1st, 2021. You can find my old (misc) masterlist here.
⤶ go back to masterlist navigation
𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐒: Touchstarved; Piofiore Fated Memories/Episodio 1926; Vairable Barricade; Midnight Cinderella; Tears Of Themis (coming soon)
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••• ━━━━━Touchstarved
Something A Little More Fun - AIS X VERE [smut] Tags: Friends With Benefits; Smoking; Alcohol; Alley Blow Jobs; Frottage; Kissing; Making Out; Blow Jobs; Large Cock; Ais is packing; Choking; Glove Kink; Ais plays with Vere’s fox ears
••• ━━━━━Piofiore Fated Memories/Episodio 1926
Corruption - YUAN [smut] Tags: Choking; Asphyxiation; Masochism; Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot; Virginity; Reader is a virgin; Coming In Pants; Coming Untouched; Verbal Humiliation; Praise Kink; Dirty Talk; in Tsudaken’s voice nonetheless! if you can hear it
You and I, among the fallen leaves - DANTE FALZONE [fluff] Tags: Tooth-Rotting Fluff; Childhood Memories
••• ━━━━━Midnight Cinderella
Ice-cold heat - BYRON WAGNER [smut] Tags:  Temperature Play; Punishment; Masturbation; Power Play
Shared moments - NICO MEYER [smut] Tags:  Secret relationship; Bathroom sex; Fluff & Smut
••• ━━━━━Variable Barricade
A Lovely Day - ICHIYA MITSUMORI [fluff] Tags: Fluff; Tooth-Rotting Fluff; Married Couple; Married Life; Pet Names; Dates; Kissing; Humor
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