Guide me, oh Muse, in my journey

Easily Entertained by Shiny Objects: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4, I declare a fic war!

Sun, 19 May 2013 19:33:39 -0400

Easily Entertained by Shiny Objects: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4, I declare a fic war!:

afullmargin:

dea-goes-a-tumbln:

What: Tumblr Fic War

Who: Anyone who reblogs this post.

When: Until everyone is actualfax dead, because this is WAR suckers!

Why: FEELINGS

What: Everyone who reblogs this post is opening their ask box up to the most brutal, feelings-inducing prompts anyone who is playing can imagine. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to take those prompts and DESTROY EVERYONE with them. Not just angsty stuff either, fluff can be just as bad, as many of you know!

Bring it on!

I can but try. *cracks knuckles* Anything askbox action I can’t finish tonight, I’ll dive into tomorrow. Shall we tag anything we do #Fic War to make it easier?

UPDATE: Tag preference is #Ficwar2013

Squeaks the Kitten

Wed, 15 May 2013 02:55:00 -0400

so the last one I posted was really sad, and in my RP R just got a kitten named Squeaks

so this happened

also for Sam because Wisdom Teeth suck

Squeaks was a happy, well behaved, menace.

And Enjolras was almost positive the kitten was doing it just to bother him.

See the thing about Squeaks was that he was barely big enough to fit in Grantaire’s hand. Barely old enough to be away from his mother, and the runt of his liter, he was so tiny it was easy to lose him despite his brightly colored fur that turned him into a little ball of fluff instead of a kitten. His favorite activities were curling up with Jehan or Grantaire, following Grantaire around the house like a shadow, riding on Cujo’s back-

And being a menace in Enjolras’ presence.

Starting with the scratching at his door, the little kst kst kst that really were too quiet to hear, until the dog heard them and started whining and then they couldn’t be ignored. But when he would finally pull himself from bed and open the door the kitten would have vanished, and usually was sitting in Grantaire’s sleeve innocently when Enjolras went looking. Or, if the kitten was feeling really adventurous – and steady on his feet – would bolt past him and hide away in his clothing. Napoleon never did a thing about it, and more times than not Enjolras would pull on an article of clothing that was filled with a tiny squeaking puffball. Or how he would try to wiggle up Enjolras’ pant leg when he would kiss Eponine goodbye, then flee to hide behind Eponine, successfully distracting the both of them so Enjolras’ wouldn’t get a proper kiss.

He even stole the toilet paper.

The worst, though, the absolute worse, was when Eponine would spend the night, and the tiny kitten would give him looks that were positively judgmental from his perch on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Why do you hate me?” he got the chance to ask one afternoon, sprawled out on the couch with the tiny beast sitting on his chest, staring him down. The kitten squeaked back, his tail flicking back and forth. Napoleon rested next to the couch, his snores tickling Enjolras’ fingers.

“Is it because of R?”

The kitten squeaked again, but sat back and pawed at his chest. No claws, because while he was a menace he was really fucking well behaved.

“So you’re over protective are you? I could squish you, you know.”

Squeaks did his best job at a menacing noise, but all that came out was yet another squeak and the tiny kitten looked disappointed. Enjolras chuckled, petting Squeaks’ head until the puff ball huffed and flopped down onto his chest.

“I’ll make a deal, you stop stealing the toilet paper and I’ll take R out. Deal?”

Squeaks mewed, pressing up into his touch. Enjolras took it for an agreement.

That Friday Enjolras took Grantaire out, and his toilet paper was safe once more.

this fic is 50 shades of sideways awful but I’m not doing too well in my mind-place either,...

Sun, 12 May 2013 02:27:23 -0400

this fic is 50 shades of sideways awful

but I’m not doing too well in my mind-place either, and I write to feel better.

R in a bad mindplace, that should be enough

if not: Alcoholism, Verbal Abuse, Drug Abuse, Self-harm and Suicidal thoughts are all discussed below the cut

Grantaire was full of self – destructive tendencies and volatile emotions. It was from years of emotional abuse at his father’s hand, while his mother just watched silently. There was nothing he could do; he was a child when he first was taught he was useless, and a teen when he was taught he was a fuck-up. Being an adult didn’t do much to chance the lessons, to bandage the scars and fix the cracks.

Neither did the sex, the booze or the drugs, but the smoke dulled his senses and the booze dulled his mind and it helped.

Like tonight, when the words useless and fuck up hung heavily on his shoulders. When the mouth that tattooed them onto his brain wasn’t that of his father, but of his God, and, really, all he could do was toast his Apollo (“Congratulations, you figured it out!”) and tip and entire bottle of whiskey down his throat before bowing out of the Musain.

So the floor of his junky second-story apartment became his haven, and even when all the alcohol he had stored away was gone and he had smoked himself through a pack of cigarettes he was still far too much here and not enough gone for his liking.

But Jehan had dumped out the rest of his booze a few weeks ago, and he had been off harder drugs since Jehan sobbed at finding the holes in his arms when he was 18. And anything else he could possibly use, well, he had used it up already in attempts to escape.

So he took a razor to his wrists, breathing in deeply at the sting and breathing out with the blood flow.

And he could breath.

Breath.

When Jehan found him on his floor the next morning, he almost felt bad for scaring the little poet so badly.

But he was very much alive, and it wasn’t the first time, nor the last, that he’d wish he very much wasn’t.

so today is the ERE shipping festival yes? well today is also the day I happen to be moving out of...

Wed, 01 May 2013 15:39:17 -0400

so today is the ERE shipping festival yes?

well today is also the day I happen to be moving out of the dorms

so since I have a second, I’ll link to my past ERE and I’ll try to get some new things out before midnight -crosses fingers-

Belong

Untitled Eponine and R bonding (from “Belong” Verse

And I’ll add this other untitled thing because it technically is

so tomorrow for the ere shipping festival I want to write THINGS STUFF so any requests for that?...

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 14:48:56 -0400

so tomorrow for the ere shipping festival I want to write THINGS

STUFF

so any requests for that? Because I’m so excited for this i don’t think you understand

you are actually one of my favourite grantaire writers, honest to god. i adore your writings so much

Tue, 30 Apr 2013 13:07:19 -0400

ohmygoddd ;;

no higher compliment can ever be bestowed upon me. Bless you. Nonny you made my day!

I seriously. I just. I love R so damn much. I see so much of him in myself and so much of me in him and I try really hard to do him justice. And he just comes so easily to me. and. Really, there is no higher compliment that you could give me than saying you like my R. I just

I want to hug you

and give you cookies. Or something else. and face smooches. Or just cookies or something. something. <333

So I have two requests here and 4 requests on my main blog, and I have them. I see them. This week,...

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 00:38:22 -0400

So I have two requests here and 4 requests on my main blog, and I have them. I see them.

This week, however, is finals. Which means the past month has been final prep. The things I’ve posted I’ve had time and inspiration to write them, but I will get those prompts to you (and if your promp has mont it will take a little longer because hoo shit do I write a bad mont. And not as in bad boy but as in THE WRITING OF HIM JUST SUCKS because I suck so)

thank you, again, for following me through all of this. You’re all the best <3

Jehan and Grantaire

Sun, 28 Apr 2013 04:08:34 -0400

because their friendship is legendary

also I’m really fucking proud of this one sooooo

connected to this one, if you’ve read it you’ll get how

The coffee shop on main was a haven for the artistic and strange. Obscure or local paintings hung on the walls, crooked in a way that was in itself artistic, each piece of furniture obviously coming from a different second-hand store or thrift shop and the front door was painted bright orange. Anyone who cared what they looked like avoided it like the plague, making it Grantaire’s favorite place to haunt when he didn’t want to go home.

Today, however, it was a little more crowded than he was use too. Brightly dressed hipsters occupied every seat, and if he wasn’t in such a desperate need of caffeine and the view of the bright orange entrance he would have avoided it. The only open seat in the place was a large plush seat next to the window, its companion occupied by a freckled faced teen in floral jeans.

He almost laughed out loud at the fact that this seemed too much like a cheesy romance novel for it to really be real life as he sat down, holding his cup to him like a life line. The teen in question was one Jean Prouvaire, and he knew that because he had been an absolute creep the past two weeks since the new freshman class started. He sat alone, with his floral jeans and floral t-shirts and his hair always braided. His freckles looked to be expertly placed, like they were painted by God himself, but he looked so very sad. So very alone.

Grantaire just really wanted to paint him, or sketch him at least.

Jean looked up at him as he sat, a pen lid in his teeth and an ink smudge on his cheek. He removed the lid from his lips, capping his pen. “Hello…”

“Uh, hey.” He hadn’t expected a greeting, and he sipped idly at his coffee while he waited for an explanation.

“Grantaire, right?” Jean smiled softly at the sputter Grantaire emitted. “I’ve noticed you looking at me, so I asked around.”

“Oh god I’m so sorry,” Grantaire groaned. “I’m such a creep I know. I promise I’m not… really a creep. I’m really not. I just… Has anyone ever told you you’re beautiful?” Jean raised an eyebrow at him and he groaned again. “Okay yeah, I’m failing at proving I’m not a creep but trust me I’m not. I’m an artist, or at least a half-assed one, and I really want to paint you. Or sketch you. Okay I’m a major creep you think I’m a creep I’m sorry.”

Jean giggled again, shaking his head. “Yeah that is kind of creepy,” he agreed, but Grantaire was so awe struck by the sound that he missed the words completely.

“Sorry.”

“It’s sweet though.” Jean smiled again, and Grantaire noticed the way this one actually reached his eyes, and how much more beautiful he looked that way. “I wouldn’t mind, if you really need a muse. I’m sure you could find a better one thou-“

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in this town ever,” Grantaire interrupted, not one bit ashamed anymore. “If you’ll be my muse I’ll take it. Please?”

Jean blushes, laughing softly as he tugged at his braid. “I… okay. Yeah, that’s…” he reached across the table. “Proper introduction. Jean Prouvaire. But you may call me Jehan.”

“Grantaire is really all you need to know, or R,” he grinned and Jean, Jehan, laughed. “It’ll be a pleasure to work with you Jehan.”

Jehan carried this little book around with him everywhere. It was well loved, the spine cracked and doodles covered the front and back covers. It nearly filled with Jehan’s flowing script, with flowers and Grantaire’s sketches and anything else Jehan wanted with him at all times. It was when Grantaire was doodling on the corner of one of these pages when Jehan pressed close to his side.

“Jehan, babe?” Grantaire closed the book, handing it back to him. “What’s wrong?”

They were sitting on Jehan’s roof, his parents gone for the weekend and no one else around to bother them. It was a relatively easy place to get to, hidden from view, and it was theirs. Jehan rested his head against the siding, flipping through the notebook before setting it down to stare at the sky. He was restless, his shoes scrapping against the shingles over and over again.

“Jehan…”

“Do you think I could be a published poet?”

Grantaire blinked, raising an eyebrow at him. “Uh, yeah? Obviously. I’ve told you that. What’s this all about?”

“I…” Jehan picked at the shingle beneath his fingers. “I think that’s what I want to do. Be published….”

“Then do it.” Grantaire tugged him closer to his side, nuzzling him and earning himself a giggle. “Nothing is stopping you but you.”

“But what if I’m not g-“

“No. None of that.” Grantaire pecked kisses along his cheek. “How about submitting something to the Art Journal at school? Maybe that sunflower one?”

Jehan hummed in thought, a light smile playing on his lips. “Yeah… yeah okay, I can do that.” He looked up at Grantaire. “But not the sunflower one.”

“But that one’s my favorite!”

“Because it was for you.” Jehan giggled, cuddling into his side. “Maybe the rain one.”

“That one’s so sad though.” Grantaire tucked him close, breathing him in. “Freckles. Do the freckle one.”

“You’re incredible bias. And isn’t this supposed to be mine?”

“Fine. Rain. Do the rain one.”

He ended up entering the one about Freckles, and when it got first in the monthly contest Grantaire took Jehan back to that little coffee shop with the Orange door to celebrate.

The first time it happened Jehan didn’t pay it much attention. He was use to Grantaire climbing in his window, and he knew Grantaire drank every once in a while. Being late at night when he entered his room and got into his bed, clinging to him like a life line, didn’t really seem like such a big deal. The second time it happened Jehan’s father screamed at them. The third time his mother made Grantaire promise there wasn’t anything going on – Jehan’s parents weren’t huge fans of Grantaire, but he came from a well-to-do family in the area, and he was Jehan’s only friend, so there wasn’t much they could do about it.

The fourth time, when he curled around Jehan and cried into his shirt, Jehan knew something was wrong.

“I think I have a problem.” Grantaire had whispered, the empty bottle clutched so tightly between his fingers Jehan was worried the bottle would break. He laughed then, bitterly, and Jehan flinched when the bottle crashed against the wall opposite of them. He had found Grantaire in an alleyway, half way between their homes. “Alcoholic. Isn’t that the word the slap to this? ‘He’s an alcoholic’ and write it off and leave it alone like it isn’t a fucking problem anymore?”

Jehan had managed to get Grantaire back to his place, tucked him into bed and curled around him protectively. He knew all the stories, about how Grantaire’s father was verbally abusive and his mother stone cold. How Grantaire was the only son of a man who was expected to have an heir, but Grantaire wasn’t good enough. He would never be good enough.

Jehan held him tighter that night, praying that maybe this way he’d be able to protect Grantaire from the world, even if it was just for a little while.

“You have to call me!” Jehan groaned, clinging tightly to Grantaire. His car was packed, every belonging he couldn’t bear to part with shoved into the vehicle. He wouldn’t be coming back, and that was a promise.

“Like I’d survive without hearing your voice,” Grantaire responded honestly, holding onto him just as tightly. “You can do this. Just two more years and you’re free.”

“Can I come visit you? During the summer?” Jehan was begging, his eyes wide and shiny with unshed tears. He was trying to be strong, and that made Grantaire’s heart even heavier.

“Of course…” He stepped back, cupping Jehan’s face in both his hands. “You are so beautiful.” His words were met with a laugh, and he smiled, lightly kissing Jehan. “You are, you really are. So much more than you were when I met you my little poet.”

Jehan giggled, leaning up to kiss him again, lingering there for a moment longer than he knew he should. “I’ll miss you so much.”

“I’ll miss you too babe.” He hugged him tightly too, doing his best to ignore the sudden wetness at his neck at Jehan lost his battle with his tears. “Don’t be a stranger, alright?”

“My window is always open.”

It wasn’t until he was driving away that he noticed the little book, well loved with the cracked spine and doodles covering the front and back covers, nestled between his phone and laptop.

Grantaire - Dancer

Sun, 28 Apr 2013 01:37:32 -0400

I want Grantaire as a Dancer to be a thing

help me make it a thing

also: I know very little about the blocking of dancing, i don’t even know if they call it blocking, but that’s about the only place i fail in my knowledge of dancing

This was just not acceptable.

Enjolras was supposed to be working, but the internet at his dorm had gone out – again. Again. How many times did it have to go out before the university finally fixed their unstable connection?! – And he really had no other place to go but the multi-purpose center. The only place on campus with a semi-steady internet connection.

The same one with the dance studio, with its large glass windows and dance students preparing for Juries and other such end of the semester performances.

And of course, Grantaire.

It was not acceptable, and for what’s more it just wasn’t fair.

He tried his hardest to ignore it, he really had – finals, Enjolras, finals are important. You have a paper to write and people to study and you have finals. – but those damn windows and music and-

Grantaire was on the floor, laughing at something someone was saying, his arms above his head and his back was arching, ever so slightly, off the floor as he stretched. His shirt rode up his stomach, showing a strip of skin and-

Enjolras closed his laptop. He can wait for the internet back at the dorm.

There was a certain level of appreciation they all had for the day Grantaire decided that he wanted to be a dancer. Between the dancing and the painting he had very little time and there wasn’t much control Grantaire could give up to the bottle. He still drank, but it was just enough to make the shaking in his hands stop and only on the days when the shaking got bad enough to affect the brush or the blocking.

What it did, however, was prove to Enjolras how big of a fucking menace his room-mate could be.

And he was about 99% sure he did it on purpose. Like all the times he wore those obnoxiously tight dance pants, or practiced in the room as Enjolras returned from class, or when he laid in the strangest positions, sat in the strangest positions, as he studied or painted.

The worse, the worse was when he was lounging on his bed, and suddenly Enjolras is assaulted with the sight of him stretching. His head it tilted back, his back arched, his arms above his head and his legs elongated with his toes pointed and-

He does it on purpose.

Because he’s a fucking Menace.

Grantaire arrives home around 11, yawning loudly. He knows Enjolras is awake, and true to habit he is, hunched over a book in bed, highlighting furiously. The blond god only spares him a glance before curling into his text book more. Grantaire only rolls his eyes, dropping his bag and making his way for the bathroom. Shower, possibly a drink – if Jehan hadn’t stolen it all again, but there was a possibility he slipped out with his last bottle – and sleep. A lot of sleep.

He was stopped, however, by an insistent grunt from the left side of the room. He glanced back at the Blond in question, who was trying very hard not to look at him.

“The internet went out earlier,” he said by way of explanation, “So I was at the multipurpose center. You… uh…” Enjolras swallowed hard. “When is the dance concert again? You looked very…. I’d like to see the finished work.”

Grantaire leaned against the bathroom door, smiling fondly. “Next Wednesday. I can get you a ticket if you want.”

Enjolras just nodded, going back to highlighting. Grantaire went into the bathroom, smiling to himself the entire time.

Combeferre and Bahorel

Sat, 27 Apr 2013 04:01:45 -0400

I blame Dee completely and totally because she’s a dirty enabler. And also part of this was blatantly ripped off something she wrote me I hope she doesn’t mind SOBBU

I love them

and I’ll write something more… in depth about how this scene went down when I can find the power to do so ~~smut is so hard whine~~

also Anxiety/Panic discussed

The ironic thing was he wasn’t perfect.

He tried to be, and every perfect score in school or position at the top of his class or president position in some club or speech he’s given or letter of recommendation he was just given should have convinced him somehow that he was.

But it didn’t.

He didn’t need to be perfect. And he knew that, deep inside. But he had parents who would support him no matter what he did, and two older brothers that were perfect in everything and he-

He couldn’t bring himself to settle for anything less than perfect.

But he wasn’t perfect. And the nights he realized that were the hardest to bear.

Bahorel loved night time. Between the bars and the clubs and the cool night air, there was really nothing that could be wrong with the moon in the sky and the stars in the puddles on the street. Even on nights like this, when the bars really didn’t interest him and he had been avoiding clubs for a few months now, the cool air called to him.

So he walked, letting the leaves crunch under his boots and the night calm him. And he walked without a true purpose, nowhere in particular he wanted his feet to carry him, he just allowed them to carry him where ever they desired as he let his thoughts wander.

It was on the third, possibly fourth ring, when his phone, blaring something or another, caught his attention.

“Hel-“

“Bahorel.” His feet stopped moving. The voice on the other end sounded wrecked, quiet but wrecked in all the wrong ways. “I… I need you.”

He was moving again before he acknowledged it.

“I’m on my way babe.”

The one major setback on his drive to be perfect was the anxiety. The panic that slowly set in over a course of days, hung over him like one of those cheesy cartoon depression clouds until his lungs seized up and he can’t….

It hadn’t even registered in his mind that he had called Bahorel until he hung up, his eyes glued to a single spot on his ceiling. He was sprawled out on his bed, counting the grooves in the paint above him, how many cars he heard drive past, anything to keep his mind off the way his heart was trying to pound its way out of his chest and how hard it was to breath. His body felt heavy, but his mind was alive with whispering thoughts.

He was flawed, because deep inside he couldn’t believe he was really good at anything. He was perfect, but when the anxiety hit he didn’t believe so.

The door to his apartment clicked open, and Combeferre rolled over to stare at him. Bahorel stared back at him, a strange expression on his face before he closed the door and pulled his boots off.

“No words.” Bahorel murmured when he reached the bed, his voice silencing the commotion in his mind. He climbed on the bed, his weight a welcome pressure on his body as the other man covered him. “Let me do the talking. Just listen.”

Combeferre managed a nod, not even flinching when his glasses were removed from his face. Kisses were pressed to his lips, his forehead, his chin and ears and throat. “Good boy. Such a good boy.”

A nip to his throat, a bite to his collar bone, a bruise on his wrist as Bahorel pinned his wrists to the bed; each motion released a knot in his chest, his body relaxing and his mind clearing under Bahorel’s touch.

He wasn’t perfect, no. But he was loved perfectly. And the way that Bahorel knew how to take him apart to put him together, didn’t question the reasons or the why, just smiled at every bruise he left behind, helped him come to grips with that maybe, just maybe, it’s okay to be flawed.

Perfectly Flawed.

Presidential Les Mis AU preview

Wed, 17 Apr 2013 17:26:52 -0400

His leg had twitched 17 times in the past 5 minutes, his fist had clenched 32 times in a fashion that if he had been Bahorel he would have caused a fist fight, and his grip on her wrist had only tightened since he had taken hold of it. She was hyper aware of his every motion, had been since Enjolras had taken hold of her – she had been picking at the sleeve of her dress and apparently it was driving him crazy.

            It wasn’t the only thing, obviously, but it was something he could stop.

            This dinner wasn’t supposed to be political, but things can only stay ‘formal’ for so long when the host is the President and everyone wants to impress upon him their agenda. Enjolras took it all with a pleasant smile; Eponine knew that the only people in the room who understood the rage coursing through him were those on either side of him – herself and Combeferre, who was so stoic that people gave up a while ago trying to speak politics with him – and it was almost comical.

            But it was typical, far too typical.

            Eponine shifted, crossing her legs and sighing rather loudly. The man talking stopped, a look resembling shock on his face at her reaction. She leaned on the arm of her chair toward Enjolras, raising an eyebrow at the man in question.

            “Sir, your opinions on all of this is so… fascinating I assure you, but absolutely primitive.” Eponine cooed. “To speak of women’s right in such a base way in front of a man who is very resolute about such things, whose Secretary of State is a Woman.” She shifted again, switching the way her legs were crossed. “And, possibly the worse of your sins, saying all these dastardly things in front of his wife. It’s almost comical how little tact you show.”

            The room had grown quiet during this time, all except the chuckle she heard from the doorway. Enjolras’ hand had left her wrist and slipped into hers, and Combeferre was smirking. She leveled the man with a stare – who had grown quite pale - a small smirk playing at her lips.

            “Now, my good sir, I do believe it’s time for you to leave my house.”

-leaves this here and rolls away to make hats-

And it is a pleasure, it truly is. Montparnasse never doubted that, because Jehan was a fucking beauty. Why else would Montparnasse keep him around? Allow him to sleep in his bed and cart him around on his arm like some sort of Trophy wife?

Tue, 16 Apr 2013 00:44:29 -0400

and then Montpanasse the douche rears his ugly head because trophy wife. Jehan has no purpose to him other then sex and being the literal equivalent of a trophy wife.

He really doesn’t give a fuck about anyone but himself when you get down to it. Yeah there was a point when he loved Jehan, and a point when he loved Eponine, but they passed rather quickly because Love is a fickle thing and he doesn’t believe in it.

So he keeps Jehan around to look at him and fuck him and nothing more.

Or, to be fair, it’s too right. Too perfect. And he doesn’t have a name for the tug at his heart as he sits at the open window to smoke – he doesn’t want Jehan to have another coughing fit thank you very fucking much – and he’s watching said freckled beauty sleeping in his bed. He’s curled up on his side, face pressed into the pillow while the covers pool at his waist exposing the freckled curve of his back to Montparnasse’ viewing pleasure. And it is a pleasure, it truly is.

Tue, 16 Apr 2013 00:40:11 -0400

of course you would pick this one

So basically I have this horrible weakness for making my villains have really adorable moments - it makes their douchebaggery all that worse? and Montparnasse is a douche. And so we find him, obviously after mind blowing sex, and he’s appreciating the beauty in his bed. And suddenly he comes to this startling realization that fuck shit i might be in love? And being in Love is BAD. BAD NO NO BAD BAD NO BAD.

no love

But as he sits there, watching him sleep, and its all too perfect and he really thinks he should be worried, he really does. But He enjoys the sight before him far too much, and enjoys Jehan’s presence and smile and would love to keep him forever.

Pick any passage of 500 words or less from any fanfic I’ve written, and comment to this post with that selection. I will then give you the equivalent of a DVD commentary on that snippet: what I was thinking when I wrote it, why I wrote it in the first place, what’s going on in the character’s heads, why I chose certain words, what this moment means in the context of the rest of the fic, lots of awful puns, and anything else that you’d expect to find on a DVD commentary track.

Tue, 16 Apr 2013 00:16:51 -0400

also I’d like to make a shout out to the people following this blog who were not forced to by...

Mon, 15 Apr 2013 00:25:23 -0400

also

I’d like to make a shout out to the people following this blog who were not forced to by complete power of knowing me personally

because thank you for the ego boost

you have no idea

Combeferre and Grantaire

Mon, 15 Apr 2013 00:17:46 -0400

I got this request through the “Give me a paring and a song and I’ll write you a drabble” thing that I’m doing that’s FOREVER GOING?!

and I like it way to much stop me I’m shipping everyone with everyone

these boys are more co-dependent then the host club

It wasn’t something he was necessarily planning on – but he had come to the conclusion that his entire life was filled with things he couldn’t plan on. Enjolras was a factor that could not be factored into any equation logically – but this?

He had known Grantaire since Freshman year, had seen the way he pined for Enjolras and the way he drank, the way he argued Enjolras’ opinions and called him Apollo and was basically so in love that anyone, everyone, knew about it.

Except Enjolras. Because Enjolras was blind to basically everything that wasn’t politics and the like.

And Eponine. He wasn’t blind to Eponine.

But that obviously wasn’t the point.

The fact of the matter was, he had known the cynical artists for about two years. Combeferre had his share of dragging Grantaire home, of holding his hair back when he was sick and tucking him into bed at night – he could share stories with Bahorel, and so far nothing beat the incident after Enjorlas and Eponine became “official.” Combeferre is still hailed as a saint and they don’t talk about it. They don’t talk about a lot of things. Combeferre is almost positive he knows more about Grantaire then the rest do, because Grantaire isn’t afraid to talk when he’s drunk.

So when Combeferre found Grantaire on the bathroom flood, leaning against the wall in a drunken haze, he had expected it to be like every time before.

He hadn’t expected the kiss. He hadn’t planned on anything like that.

“Grantaire, what are you-“

“You’re so nice t’ me ‘ferre…” Grantaire slurred, laying his head in Comebeferre’s lap, curling up on the floor. “So much nicer th’n eve’one else…” he had passed out then, and Combeferre hadn’t had the heart to wake up.

Because, he supposed, Grantaire was kind of like Enjolras: he was a factor you couldn’t account for.

Grantaire was a whirlwind, a hurricane always in motion. He’s a fireball, passionate about not being passionate at all. He’s all rage and cynicism and pain. He could tear apart an opinion in 5 seconds flat – Combeferre has only seen Enjolras falter a few times in his life, and they are all related to Grantaire.

And yet he’s soft. His favorite thing is when Combeferre’s hand finds its way into his curls, and the tension in his shoulders bleeds out almost instantly at the contact. He’s a cuddlier, with his arms around Combeferre’s chest and his face pressed into his neck and Combeferre really can’t complain. His kisses can hit you like a freight train or they can be like warm breeze. His hands can do absolutely mind blowing things, and yet sometimes all they want to do is rest on Combeferre’s stomach or back or leg as they rest. And sometimes Grantaire likes to just sit next to his desk, his face resting against Combeferre’s thigh as he draws and Combeferre writes.

Combeferre didn’t really plan on this relationship, but when Grantaire looks up at him with a smile, and he isn’t shaking with the need to drink, and isn’t depressed, and his eyes sparkle with something akin to adoration, Combeferre can honestly say he doesn’t mind. And his hand will find its way into Grantaire’s curls, and Grantaire will sigh softly and Combeferre really can’t think of a better place to be.

Bahorel and Combeferre

Thu, 04 Apr 2013 01:37:49 -0400

this is one of my super otps and if you wrote this for me i would LOVE YOU FOREVER

I also like Possessive fics otl

Bahorel is possessive.

And while that word seems far too strongthere is also nothing else in the world that really describes the urge he feels to mark Combeferre’s skin.

It doesn’t hit often, because Combeferre is indulgent. (Indulgent isn’t the word Combeferre would use, but Bahorel knows it’s true, because in ways Combeferre is almost as bad, maybe even worse than Enjolras when it comes to his own pleasures not because he isn’t interested but he wouldn’t want to be the burden to ask. It’s almost endearing, if not irritating)

But if does hit. It hits after midterms, or finals, or any other time when Combeferre spends all his time on his laptop writing papers so long and intricate that Bahorel made the mistake of trying to read one once and it actually hurt. It hits when Combeferre finally leaves his room and curls up in the corner arm chair, his legs thrown over one arm and his head resting on the other, and he’s reading, and Bahorel just doesn’t have the self-control he wishes he did. Because the sun hits him through the window in such a cheesy romantic way, and his position is almost out of character except for where it isn’t, and his skin is flawless and there isn’t a bruise to be found which means it’s been far too long since they’ve had sex.

And, if God hates him that particular day, Combeferre will catch him staring. And he’ll just raise one of his eyebrows, one side of his lips with twitch into a smirk, and he’ll go back to his book like nothing ever happened except he know exactly how it boils Bahorel’s blood.

Lesser men would crumble under that, but Bahorel is a warrior. Instead he just shoves his hands in his pockets or takes a cigarette break because he needs to keep his hands pre-occupied.

He’d feel bad, he really would, that he covers Combeferre in bruises that look positively painful some days if the man in question didn’t encourage it. If he didn’t absent-mindedly stroke at them when he was reading something on his laptop, or smile at them in the mirror when he thought Bahorel was still asleep, or

Or gasp like a man who hadn’t had oxygen in his lung in a very long time whenever Bahorel gave them to him. Combeferre wasn’t a loud man by any standard, but the noises he made and the words he murmured when Bahorel was over him, bruising him, inside him, left no room for him to even wonder if Combeferre wanted it.

And if Combeferre looked at him, slightly tilted his head to the side and smirked, well, who was Bahorel to argue with that blatant invitation.

Because Bahorel was possessive. He liked seeing his bruises across Combeferre’s skin, liked seeing Enjolras’ reactions and hear Courfeyrac’s whistles and Feuilly’s high fives. But mostly he liked that people knew, that there was no doubt that he was the one by Combeferre’s side.

Eponine and Combeferre and Les Amis madness

Tue, 02 Apr 2013 23:44:12 -0400

for that prompt

perfect example about how i think I’m hilarious

It was the rather loud crash that had first attracted Enjolras’ attention – not that loud crashes weren’t normal, but the size of this one or how quickly things when silent was rather alarming. He waited, hoping to hear the sounds of, well, anything. Bahorel and Feuilly tossing each other into things, Jehan and Courfeyrac… well – he blushed at that thought – or even Grantaire whining that the stairs were far too fucking long and he was just going to sleep on them thank you very much.

But nothing came.

It was his duty then, he supposed as he begrudgingly stood, to check to see who had died.

He was not, however, expecting the rather large mass of bodies at the front window, crouched together in an attempted to see.

“What… the fuck?”

Jehan glanced up at him and waved him over, a sweet smile on his lips.

“What are you doing?”

“Combeferre and Eponine are outside!”

For all the invasion of privacy that he knew he should have been lecturing them on, he really couldn’t help himself slipping up beside Jehan to get a look for himself.

“They’ve been talking for like 5 minutes,” Courfeyrac whined from somewhere below the windowsill, “Just kiss her already.”

They were sitting in Eponine’s car, Combeferre laughing and Eponine gesturing wildly with her hands.

They looked happy.

“This has been going on far too long!”

“It’s romantic Courfeyrac, just leave them alone!”

“Why the fuck hasn’t he kissed her yet?”

Somewhere in the mass came a hum that sounded an awful a lot like Feuilly and an awful a lot like “Kiss the girl.”

Enjolras side softly, shaking his head. “Are we seriously spying on Combeferre?”

“You’re standing here with us aren’t you?”

Enjolras shut up after that.

It was about 10 minutes later – 2 minutes after restraining Courfeyrac from running out to “encourage” them and 5 minutes after the discovery that it was, indeed, Feuilly being the little shit humming Disney music – that Eponine stopped talking and smiled at Combeferre. Combeferre smiled back, and suddenly Enjolras’s view was obscured by Courfeyrac throwing up his hands in a celebratory “finally!”

Eponine/Combeferre + "Kiss The Girl!" <3 <3

Tue, 02 Apr 2013 23:42:33 -0400

SCREECHES I LOVE DISNEY PROMPTS

Eponine and Combeferre

Mon, 01 Apr 2013 19:22:11 -0400

for a thing I did on my blog

paring + song = I write you a drabble

Song: Won’t Say I’m in Love

He was perfect, stupidly so. And it wasn’t just his personality – which was aggravatingly perfect, so stupidly unrealistically irritatingly perfect that it made should have made her ill but it didn’t because it was just so stupidly perfect – But he was lovely as well. She wouldn’t – didn’t – mind looking at him for extended periods of time with his beautiful eyes and well groomed hair and just

Ugh

Normal human beings were not this perfect.

Eponine slumped into the chair, only half listening to the conversations around her – the meeting had ended, so it was really just mindless chatter anyways – and watched Combeferre from across the room. He sat, hunched over papers with Enjolras, his voice low as they spoke of something – important something’s, crucially important something’s, something’s that would change the world someday – and she really couldn’t help but stare.

And Grantaire, of course, couldn’t help but notice.

“Apollo or stupidly perfect?” was his only form of greeting as he flopped into the arm chair next to her’s, tumbler cradled in his hand.

“Greek god is all yours sweetheart,” she muttered, stealing his drink with only a slight protest.

“Then its Stupidly perfect.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You basically admitted it already, stop fighting me and give it up.”

She huffed, handing him back his drink and curling up tighter in the arm chair. “Normal people aren’t that perfect.”

“You’re telling me.” He was fidgety tonight; she heard the clicking of the ice hitting glass over and over.

“This is stupid. “

“What?”

“He’ll never…” she swallowed hard, shaking her head. “Why do I even try?”

He slowly handed the glass back to her, and she took it gratefully and downed the rest of the amber liquid inside.

“Well, first of all you’re a babe, so there is no surprise there.” He teased, earning a half-hearted swat. “And it’s okay to feel this way.” She smiled at that one, nudging her head against his arm.

“I just… I don’t want to lose again.”

“Oh babe, you really do have it bad don’t you?” she just nodded, and Grantaire kissed the top of her head. “He’d be lucky to have you.”

“I could never tell him, never… encourage him to-“

“He’ll find out, he’s stupidly perfect remember?”

She sighed, resting her head against him. “Will it be worth it?”

“Babe,” he was smiling, she could hear it in his voice. She glanced up at him, following his gaze to the same table she had her attention on. “It’s always worth it.”

Enjolras slipped away from the table then, and Combeferre glanced up. He looked in her direction, smiling softly, and yeah…

“Seems he already knows.”