#a reference to

[grapefruit-offical]

Can I say that I've never even seen a grapefruit irl 🥹🥹

Please don't kill me with the power of grapefruits for this please please please I have a family /silly /hj

I mean it's not really you're fault you were born in a horrible place

You can still move or travel around the world tho :D (unless you dont have money, then that's a you problem)

But please whatever you do at the market, dont eat grapefruits

[tearsover8eers]

me when Bear.:

[existential-celestial]

David G. Benner, Desiring God’s Will

[knorkles-art]

Shadow the Hotsauce

[midautumnnightdream]

Heyy remember this? It was a while ago but

@aflamethatneverdies​ asked: Appearance headcanon or childhood headcanon for Prouvaire or Feuilly?

I answered about Prouvaire over here, now it's Feuilly's turn!

Okay, so. this is not terribly structured and kinda in flux anyway, so I'll just make it a bunch of bullet points and see what comes from it.

He was born in Marseilles, because in the sorting system of Sea Amis vs Mountains Amis he's definitely Sea

His father was a sailor, of a sort – he took jobs on different ships and travelled all over the Mediterranean, even as his heart itched for greater seas and distant lands which he dared not think of with his young family waiting at home. To make up for his long absences, he entertained them with inventive, half-true stories of places visited and people met. Baby Feuilly would sit on the floor, his small body pressed against his father's legs as he listened in rapt attention to this beloved half-stranger who could draw pictures with words that were no less bright and detailed than the ones his mother created out of paint and wood.

(The stories stay with him, even as the content fades like a half forgotten dream, or indeed like a paint that has chipped away. It matters not – when the news of the Greek and their efforts for independence start reaching Paris, he'll recognize in them fellow humans with hopes and dreams that matter and finds that he cannot let his attention to be contained only to the suffering that's right in front of him)

Feuilly's father disappeared when his son was about five years old: the last news his family heard of him was that he had left the ship he had been working on in Naples in order to pursue a different route – not entirely unusual for him and no one thought to take note of the name of the ship and it became impossible to find out what had happened to him.

Baby Feuilly was ready to fight anyone who claimed his father abandoned him deliberately

(He never lost that conviction, even as he learned not to speak of it. It was a bitter experience, to see even otherwise respectful friends look at him slightly in askance at what they considered a peculiar remnant of a childhood naivete. He could never understand that interpretation. Not when he could so vividly remember the awful cold horror seeping into his bones, the small fingers growing numb in his mother's hand even as he knew from the sinking feeling in his heart that his father was dead)

(He tells Enjolras, once, at early hours in the morning when a prolonged discussion on international politics has given way to a thoughtful reminiscence about their shared hometown. Even as he's speaking, he wonders at the force that compels him to do so – he certainly needs no reassurance in his own conviction, nor a show of faith from a man who he has learned to trust above any other. Yet there is something deeply moving in the solemn acceptance, spoken not in words but through the pressure of slender fingers laced through his own: a silent benediction from his new family to his old one)

His mother worked in a small craftshop, painting fantastic and colourful scenes on small wooden boxes that were sold as curiousities to the travellers passing through the port. Little Feuilly took his first steps on the sawdust covered floor, coughing both at the dust and paint fumes that unbeknownst to him were slowly taking his mother from him. Once he was alone in the world, it became his job to keep the floor clean. He swept and dusted, fetched and carried, and observed. He never had a proper apprenticeship, but there was enough community feeling in the shop to allow him to study many of the necessary skills all the same.

Feuilly learned all he could about wood and paint and the delicate craft that went into creating this frail artwork. However, the community feeling went only so far – every curiosity and concern that reached beyond the scope of becoming a more skilled and faithful worker was treated with increasing disapproval by the people who had been happy to indulge in the earnest questioning of a precocious small child, but were made uncomfortable by a growing orphan boy forgetting his place in the world. Feuilly, thirteen year old, struggling his way through newspaper headlines and shaken to the core by the betrayal of the disparaging remarks earned by his attempt to enlist help, allows his hurt to galvanize him. His worldly possessions can be fitted into a small knapsack, but he has his father's stories and his mother's colours to keep close to his heart and a better understanding of the world than anyone has given him credit for. The road to Paris is hard, but he makes it. Leaving the name his parents have given him is harder, but newly dubbed Feuilly understands the importance of symbolic gestures and acts of camaraderie better than anyone.

(Through his life and even to his death, there will always be people who accuse him of naivete. They fail to realise the strength and rarity of the mind, which expecting the best and often left disappointed,is nevertheless never brought low, but always propelled into action.)

Appearance:

Feuilly is one of the amis I have hardest time pinning down: he's on the shorter end of the scale and of slighter build. Brown hair that always ends up falling in his eyes no matter what he does. Greenish grey eyes (or possibly hazel idk) and sharp features. Darker skin, but still flushes very easily and obviously, especially when he's excited about something. Talks with his hands a lot, which has possibly led to a minor workshop accident or two. :p

[misc-ella-ne-ous]

they say we are all made of stars

you’re a lost boy wandering the stars. behind those glinting eyes are a million blackholes where you’ve buried your past, lost loves and broken hearts, pieces of your soul taken by the magnificent gravity of death. sometimes you wonder if you too could just slip away, if gravity could just reach its gnarled limbs and clasp your lanky form and pull you into the center of its cold embrace.

you close your eyes and the stars vanish into the recesses of your mind, scattered across neurons that won’t stop firing faster than the speed of light. tell me, if you could, would you forget your name? 

forget like you’ve tried to forget everyone else, all the smiles and laughter that are now mere echoes in your cavernous mind, their lights extinguished like every star must at the end of their time. but like the debris of a collapsed sun, their existence bursts and scatters, persisting in all the little reminders that you can’t forget, living on in the mug she used to drink from, the song he always hummed off-key, the alley where you first met, stumbling around in the dark until your souls collided in a spectacular display of light. 

they say we are all made of stars, little universes exist in the bodies we refuse to love until our breaths are numbered. they’re gone. they promised you forever and forever ran out. but ashes to ashes and dust to dust. we are the stuff of stars and in the heavens and in the air and in the earth, you will find them.

maybe that’s why you can’t bear to stand still.

[chocolia]

//Lies on the floor _(:<」∠)_

When will my life begin?