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Writing blog. Primarily Les Misérables, Assassin's Creed, and anything else that might strike a fancy. Ask box is open, feel free to request.

[afinedeath]

Mistletoe

A quick drabble thing for a Christmas Present for my dear Ran! Rule 63 Enjolras and Grantaire, doing cute Christmas things and by cute I mean Enjolras is Enjolras so. This is like, PG at the worst. It's just cute fluff.

“Come on, Enjolras. Lighten up! It’s a tradition!”

“Traditions are nothing more than a series of customs indoctrinated into children so as to keep them from questioning their parents’ systems of belief,”

“Oh please, next you’re going to go on a rant about the commercialization of Christmas, and how it’s all really just a production of propaganda to instil a desire to spend superfluous amounts of money on our loved ones for the sake of it, instead of merely doing good deeds for the sake of them.” Grantaire grinned crookedly, in the way that made her whole face light up. Enjolras felt her cheeks grow hot, but if anyone asked she would most certainly excuse it to the flush of anger she felt for the other’s words.

“Well, yes- but! I mean why should a holiday determine how much time I do or don’t spend with my family and friends. I fail to see the appeal of attempting to place a monetary value upon-”

“Enjolras, you’re putting me to sleep here,” and for emphasis, Grantaire yawned. Enjolras felt the heat reach her ears, and she released a frustrated puff of breath as she eyed the other woman (and definitely did not pout.)

“All that I am saying, is that I appreciate you more than one day a year, and for more reasons than an obligatory sprig of weed,” she huffed.

“Me?” Grantaire echoed, her smile softening, and she worried her lower lip in that way that made Enjolras feel butterflies in the pit of her stomach, “You appreciate me?”

“Of course,” Enjolras snapped, though hadn’t intended to sound so acerbic. Tried to look appropriately demure and apologetic as soon as the words had left her mouth in such a tone. Sometimes it was easy to forget how harsh she could be. It seemed she was worried for no reason though, Grantaire hadn’t even seemed to notice. Instead, Grantaire was staring at Enjolras from beneath her dark lashes, with what Enjolras thought was some sort of measure of expectancy, “I mean- we’re friends, aren’t we? I appreciate all of our friends,” the words left her in a rush, and she drew herself up, straightening and staring down her nose at the other woman, wondering if this was what Grantaire was looking for.

By the way her smile fell away, evidently it was not, and Grantaire turned her head away, eyes tipping towards the floor, fingers flexing for a bottle that was no where to be found.

“Oh,” she mumbled, worrying her lip between her teeth, “I see.”

“No-” Enjolras felt anxiety well up in her chest, caging around her heart, “I mean, it’s like,” she floundered for words, grasping for them, but not finding the right ones. “You… are important to me.” she finished lamely, looking helplessly at the other, before shaking her head indignantly.

Silence lapsed, and Enjolras could feel the moment slipping between her fingers. Gently she reached forward, cupping Grantaire’s chin in her palm.

“I like you.” she blurted it out, flushing darker still, “Enough to engage in a silly, obligatory ‘tradition’ with. I mean, not because it’s tradition, but because I would like too. I- Can I kiss you?”

Grantaire was quiet, staring with a mixture of wonder and disbelief.

“I’d like that,” Grantaire managed, and Enjolras was relieved to see that her smile was blossoming again.

“Good,” she returned softly, and she didn’t need any further invitation than that.

[afinedeath]

Adjusting

Adjusting to living with another creature was not hard, per se, but it was an adjustment. Enjolras didn't really even know where to begin.

He had never had a pet of any kind before Liberty, though he supposed that if he'd had the option of choosing he probably would have agreed that a cat was the right decision. They were self-sufficient enough that Enjolras did not have to be concerned for her well-being while he wasn't home, and didn't need as much training, or time devoted to them for care, yet one could still maintain a meaningful bond. For the most part, Enjolras hasn't minded becoming a new pet owner. At night Liberty likes to curl up on the warmth of his chest, or in the crook of his arm, and he'd be lying if he said her rhythmic purring didn't cause him to fall asleep sooner than usual. Too many nights now, he hasn't even made it to reach for the bedside light.

There are strange idiosyncrasies that he still hasn't gotten used to, though. Like the way she sometimes feels the need to follow him around, or other times ignore him entirely. The way she insists her presence is far more important in his lap than his laptop, or that whatever he is working on in that instant is clearly the best place for her to sleep. Once, she even followed him into the washroom, and Enjolras had drawn the line at her standing between his legs staring up with her head cocked just so, and even though she was a cat he couldn't help but feel slightly mortified.

He's beginning to suspect that she owns him more than he owns her when she wakes him up at a quarter to four in the morning, after she's knocked her favourite toy beneath his desk and can't reach it to retrieve it. He knows she owns him, when without a second thought he crawls out of his warm bed and falls to his knees to dig around under the dark expanse to retrieve it. She walks off carrying the mouse in her mouth, disappearing around the door, a satisfied flick of her tail his only thanks.

Still, despite everything he's... glad to have her. He always tells himself that he ought to thank Grantaire- he'd never known that anything was missing, yet now he's not sure he could come home to an empty apartment, and still be satisfied. He'd miss finding her curled up in a pile of his work; he'd miss the way she jumps him out of nowhere, attacks his ankles for a split second before bolting off, her tail out of joint as she does. He'd miss her purring on his chest, and the way she can somehow coerce him into an afternoon nap even when one was never planned-

Most of all, he would miss her, and for that, Grantaire has Enjolras' gratitude.

[afinedeath]

Bahorel/Combeferre drabble; nsfw

Prefacing this with a warning that this is pure porn. So, yeah. Also the prompt given was "marathon", and the framing for this is that it's marathon sex. This is a scene from the very beginning; but Bahorel intends to keep Combeferre in his bed for a day or two at least. Enjoy?

"You're opening up so well for me, Combeferre.  When you're nice and relaxed I am going to fuck you... slow and deep," he begins to move his fingers inside the other. Slow, as he'd promised with his words, a slick sweet drag of friction and heat as he stretches the other. It's not enough, not yet- but they'll get there. 

"I'm going to make you cum," he promises, dragging his teeth down the other's neck, along his shoulder, "Just like this. With my fingers inside of you, getting you ready for me- without even touching your cock," and he laughs against the other's skin as he crooks his fingers just so, and the strangled cry Combeferre rewards him with go straight to his own cock. 

"It's going to be a long night, Combeferre. We're just getting started,"

[afinedeath]

Bahorel/Combeferre - No longer Sentences but a Drabble challenge

I totally give up on calling these sentences they've run away from me. Modern AU Combeferre and Bahorel at a rally. Only four this time because I felt they worked much better that way. Warnings for anxiety, and implied hate speech. Not much else to say about them, I hope you enjoy.

#19 - Wind : He takes a breath as he steps up to the mic, pushing the tight, uncomfortable knot of anxiety that has settled in the pit of his stomach as far down as he can. Public speaking has always been an almost out of body experience for Combeferre- he knows when it starts, he knows when it ends, but everything in the middle becomes a blur. Not this time, though.

Not this time.

The voice cuts through his speech; cuts through his heart, and Combeferre stutters, faltering and his voice falls away. Words of such hate have no place at a rally for equality. They’re a physical blow that knock the wind out of him and Combeferre can’t speak; can’t breath. The silence crushes him.

“I-” he stammers, fighting over the anxiety swelling in his chest. He’s fighting to recover- he’s drowning, drowning- can’t breath- can’t speak- can’t think- can’t- “I- I apologize,” he’s started shaking and he can’t stop, throat closed up tight

and no way out. There’s no way out.

He can’t breath.

#18 - Speed : He doesn’t think he’s ever moved faster in his life. He’d heard the heckler- they had all heard the heckler, and Bahorel’s blood burns. There’s nothing he wants more than to find out who said it; already he’s shoving his way through the crowd, rougher than necessary but he is furious and heaven help a person who got in his way like this. He’s liable to start a riot- he knows he could, he just needs to find that son of a bitch, knock every single tooth he has out of his face, break every bone, punch until his knuckles are raw and bloody and--

The world is red, Bahorel see’s red.

And then his eyes snap to the stage, and all he sees is-

“Combeferre,”

That’s all that matters. Combeferre is all that matters and he needs him, and nothing on hell or earth is going to stop Bahorel from speeding through the crowd, elbowing and shoving until he’s clawing his way onto the stage to put his arms around the other’s shoulders, whispering into his ear and guiding him off the stage with Enjolras at his heels.

  #16 - Weakness : He’s never felt so weak, so incompetent. Someone’s hands are on him but his vision is blurry and he can’t breath, he can’t breath. His cue cards are gripped tight in his hands and he’s forgotten how his fingers work; forgotten how to let go. Flashes of red are in his peripheral vision- and then fill it up entirely before he squeezes his eyes shut.

Apologies break free, bursting forth to Enjolras as he lets himself be guided from the stage. He’s cracking; breaking; falling apart and he’s never done this so publicly. Never let himself show such weakness.

His eyes are shut, and he doesn’t want to open them, doesn’t want to face what he might find when he has to open them. Every flaw is on display, every imperfection, everything Combeferre is lacking and he knows that at least a hundred people are whispering, he can hear the murmurs through the crowd.

He’s not even sure who has him, but as soon as they’re off stage Combeferre collapses to his knees, sinking down and gripping scarlet fabric in his fingertips as he tries to remember how to breath. Bahorel drops like a stone with the other, knees hitting the floor so hard Combeferre hears something crack- but the other doesn’t seem to care and Combeferre is too overwhelmed, trying to process too much all at once that he’s forced to file it away.

“I’m here,” the other’s arms are around him, pulling him close and for half a moment Combeferre almost panics more. Trapped, trapped, trapped- but the other seems to realize his error and backs off, instead stroking his hands along the other’s shoulders, running his fingers through Combeferre’s hair and leaning in to whisper soothing words into his ear. Combeferre clings to these affections

and remembers how to breath.

#20 - Freedom : When Combeferre breaths in, he does so sharing Bahorel's air, and when the other presses in, closes that space to kiss him Combeferre relinquishes everything, a dry sob escaping him. He kisses Bahorel like the other is oxygen- everything he needs- and Bahorel presses back, cradling his head in his hand with fingers threaded through his hair and Combeferre gasps and presses closer. Bahorel's lips taste like freedom; like his heart can lift from beneath this weight. He’s all that’s holding him together and they both know it.

“It’s okay, ‘Ferre, I’m here,” Bahorel soothes, fingers rubbing circles against the nape of his neck, foreheads pressed together with Combeferre’s fingers fisted so tightly in his shirt that distantly he’s surprised it doesn’t tear.

“I know,” he whispers it shakily, back to taking unsteady breaths. He’s quiet for a few moments, absently registers that he can hear Enjolras back on stage- but he can’t understand the words; they don’t perforate the safety net Combeferre has found in the other man’s arms. All the same, even after a pause he cannot help it when the words, “Don’t leave,” tumble out of him in a whimper.

“I won’t,” Bahorel whispers it, “I won’t, I’m not going anywhere- I’m right here, right here,” and even without saying it he knows these words are a promise, “What I wouldn’t give to find that son of a-”

Combeferre cuts him off with a needy press; not quite a kiss, but Bahorel takes the hint, sighing into the other as he just pulls him closer. Realization floods Combeferre, and he staggers for the second time that day- at a loss.

“You didn’t-” because he knows Bahorel, knows how he talks with his fists and doesn’t hesitate even for half a moment in doing so.

“No,” Bahorel cuts him off, his hand trailing from the other’s hair to cup his chin, guiding the other’s eyes to meet his own, “You needed me,” and Combeferre shakes apart with a breathless laugh, but Bahorel’s putting him back together. He doesn’t think he’s ever loved anyone more.

[afinedeath]

1 Sentence Challenge (cont.) - Bahorel/Combeferre

Five more sentences, most inspired by the lovely Kristy. These ones are all mostly somewhat smutty which I apologize for and so these ones have all been stuck behind the read more tag. 14 & 15 are definitely connected. There's also a sixth bonus word in this one because reasons and inspiration thanks to the aforementioned awesome person. Thanks for reading! 

#11 - Name : He writes his name with his fingers along the other's flesh; a soft slide of skin against skin and the larger man releases a breathy moan. There's no questions of ownership here. Bahorel is the fighter, but Combeferre is the control- and Bahorel surrenders it so easily.

#12 - Sensual : The hollow dip of Combeferre's clavicle is one of Bahorel's favourite patches of skin. He could not say for sure why- but when he skates his teeth along the bone the way the other's hips rise, the soft, breathy little gasps he releases are sensual and raw, and Bahorel drinks them in eagerly as his thumbs fit against the other's hip bones.

#13 - Death : Death is a fact of life. The same as breathing, laughing, crying- Combeferre accepts this, though even in it's finality it raises dozens, perhaps hundreds of questions, debate. He does not fear it, per se, but he does fear that Bahorel might be seeking it just a little too fast. He is not sure what he would do if the other found it.

#14 - Sex : He keeps lists and timetables, organizes meetings and manipulates schedules and indexes with ease. He writes important dates on the calendar he keeps in the hall just beyond the door. It's the first thing he sees when he walks in, and the last he sees when he walks out. But no matter his organizational skills, there's just no accounting for Bahorel. So when he walks in after a long day of classes and spies the word 'SEX' written in bold, red script upon the current date (and yes, he is sure it wasn't there when he left that morning) Combeferre can't quite help the prickle of excitement that shivers up his spine. It is unlike Bahorel to schedule such a thing- that he's trying makes Combeferre both wary, and very, very interested. Maybe that was the point.

#15 - Touch : Bahorel seems to come from no where; he's barely stepped into the kitchen when the other is plucking his glasses carefully from his nose, folding them and taking care to set them on the counter before his hands are sliding up beneath the other's shirt, and Combeferre sucks in a breath because knowing this is coming and the act of it itself are two entirely different things. The other rumbles a growl deep in his throat as he presses Combeferre's back to the fridge and he fists his fingers in the other's shirt, just as eager to touch, to taste, to press close and come undone and- yes- Bahorel knows just where and how to to touch him. Where to scrape his teeth and Combeferre moans the other's name lowly, licking his lips before levering to shift, dexterous fingers hastily plucking away buttons because Bahorel may be in control, but Combeferre is anything but passive. 

# BONUS - Crack : Everyone knows Combeferre; composed, thoughtful, analytical, philosophical- adjectives he hears often enough and he holds himself to them, some kind of standard he has set for himself regardless of them being expectations or not. It is behind closed doors that those he trusts most see the cracks. The imperfect edges where Combeferre comes undone and all of his fears and anxieties escape whether he wants them to or not. But no matter how he crumbles, he knows, he trusts- Bahorel will be there to help him pick up the pieces. Knowing that makes it easier then when he falls apart.

[afinedeath]

1 Sentence Challenge (cont.) - Bahorel/Combeferre

Changed my tumblr url for this blog to get rid of the hyphen. I like this much better. As per usual, some of these didn't turn out to be one sentence but the amount I care is not at all. Some of these are original verse, the first and ninth in particular are kind of from an AU that I'm working on as a side project that hopefully I'll put up a one shot for soon. Setting for those is relatively modern but with some added aspects that I'll get into more if/when I ever post it. The rest are fairly ambiguous so far as au/canon verse goes. The last one is ambiguous for the who's who for a reason. Mostly for now these are word vomit and thanks for reading! 

#06 - Rain : The rain may wash the blood away, but it cannot stop the panic. There's a swell of it in his chest, gripping his heart as he bellows, fighting his way through the crowd. Combeferre is not a violent man- but he feels the stirrings of it when he breaks through and falls to his knees at Bahorel's side. Scarlet swirls in gutters as the white noise of a hundred rioting voices fades. The world could be coming down around them and all Combeferre knows is the way Bahorel's hand finds his even in this mess. It's gotten out of control and they both know it- it wasn't supposed to happen like this- but there's so much blood, too much blood. Bahorel's grinning like an idiot and Combeferre feels that hot flash of not-quite-violence-but-almost again because of it but he doesn't have time, there just isn't time. His free hand is pushing against the other's chest to try and stem the stain of red spreading through his shirt.

The rain comes down harder and Combeferre doesn't feel it, all he feels is the squeeze of Bahorel's hand in his own and the steady pulse of blood beneath his fingers and Bahorel's muscles straining as he tries to sit up even as Combeferre pushes to try and keep him down. But even as he is Bahorel's the stronger of the two and Bahorel's face tucks in to his neck to whisper "It's okay." 

#07 - Chocolate : It's an indulgence that he doesn't often allow himself; but when Bahorel is licking melted chocolate off his fingers, well. Who can blame him for being unable to resist?

#08 - Happiness : He catches Bahorel in the study with his feet kicked up on the coffee table and, of all things, one of Combeferre's philosophy text books in his hands and a relaxed expression on his features. He can't help but smile, and when he sits himself into the armchair across from the other, it's Bahorel who begins the conversation- an idle drawl of his opinions that betray his intelligence.

#09 - Telephone : Bahorel is used to his phone going off at odd hours with texts or calls from his friends, all with varying degrees of urgency. Tonight, when he answers he hears only three words- 'I need you,' and that's all the inspiration he needs for him to change direction, his pace quickening as a spike of a different kind of adrenaline surges through him.

#10 - Ear : He'd discovered early on that there was a sensitive spot just below the other's ear, where the lobe met his neck that he found especially tender. And when he licks it, sets his teeth there the other's spine bows and he keens and it sends a pulse of arousal straight to his cock.

[afinedeath]

1 Sentence Challenge - Bahorel/Combeferre

Things I am not good at when writing these? Making them actually one sentence. Whatever, I cheated. Here's the first 5/50. Written to assault kilihimwithyourawesome's inbox. 

#01 - Comfort : Moments like this, and the complications of the day blur together- or better yet, fade away entirely. Thick, strong arms rest around his middle; loose, but Combeferre knows that in a moments notice -an absent strange sound, a creaking of the floorboards- and that grip will tighten in a way that isn't quite comfortable, but warm and possessive and Combeferre finds that  he doesn't quite mind either way.

#02 - Kiss : Bahorel kisses like he fights; with force and fervour that leaves him panting, breathless, and dizzy. He’s not a man without surprises though, and it’s not always Combeferre who takes it slow, sweet and easy. Those kisses are Combeferre’s favourite- if only for the aspect of the unexpected.

#03 - Soft : There are those who would say that nothing about Bahorel is soft- but Combeferre knows better. After all, he has seen the other at rest, and when Bahorel sleeps there is vulnerability, a softness that he knows is reserved for him, and him alone. Combeferre cherishes it.

#04 - Pain : He doesn't feel the pain of his broken nose, it's buried too deep beneath the adrenaline and excitement. What he feels instead is the concern that rolls from the other in waves, and so he smiles, all teeth and bloody gums, and one of his hands comes up to fist in the other's hair to pepper him in sloppy kisses as though Combeferre is the one in need of comfort from the pain.

#05 - Potatoes : It’s not a traditional weapon by any means, but in Bahorel’s hands anything can become deadly- Combeferre has to admit, there is something strangely fascinating about watching a man get beaten with a potato, of all things. Really if Bahorel had been going for higher marks, he ought to have used the bag; but that’s a thought the philosopher keeps to himself as he settles his hands on the other’s shoulders and works to pry him back.

[afinedeath]

“You don’t believe in miracles,” said Bahorel, pursing his lips and smiling, showing the other a flash of bloody gums.

“On the contrary,” Combeferre replied calmly, raising an eyebrow as he tipped his head forward just enough to study the other from over the edge of his glasses. But this lasted only half a moment, before he was carefully pushing them back up his nose with a clean section of his sleeve, “I believe in man, and so too do I believe in man’s faith. Faith begins with our beliefs, and those beliefs come from man,” Bahorel seemed to mull this over, licking his lips a moment, eyes sharpening just a fraction, “Then,” he spoke slowly, as though he were choosing his words very carefully. Something Combeferre noted with the tiniest hint of satisfaction, “Are you saying man makes his own miracles?”

Combeferre smiled cryptically, though he was visibly pleased that he had pushed the other to pursue such an avenue of thought. Catching the other’s chin gently with his hand, he murmured, “Hold still, I still have to finish setting your nose.” The rumble that escaped Bahorel wasn't quite pleased, but the argument, whether it had been one or not, was forgotten for the moment.

[serenasaystoday]

and so i wake in the morning and i step outside

and i take a deep breath and i get real high

and i scream from the top of my lungs

VIVE LA FRANCE VIVE LA FRANCE