Are You A Saint Or A Sinner? || Bahorel & Combeferre || ZombieVerse
scienceandmoths
When the Infection began, it had been only in the lower class. The gutter dwellers, the ones best left to their deaths in peace. Bahorel hadn’t blinked an eye when he’d begun to see the gamin appear more ragged, more rough, than the had been before the Infection. It was just another gutter problem, like the multitude of others that had sprung up in these last few years. They were endless, constant, and unavoidable.
It was when the dead in the streets began to show signs of not just normal deterioration, but missing chunks, bites… as though they had been eaten from. That was when he had begun to grow worried. If the street dwellers were at the stage of eating other people… then nothing was off-limits anymore. And while that would aid the rebellion against the government... it would harm them even further. There was no way of knowing who was Infected and who was not, who would be safe to involve in their plans and who would not; and that wasn't even taking into account those who could report them to the National Guard.
When he first witnessed one of the Infected tearing a man limb from limb, biting into his flesh and feeding off of it without shame, he hadn’t known what to do. It was the first time he had ever seen such cruelty, such… such inhumanity. Nothing could have prepared him for that day. Bahorel had fired off a shot to the head, hoping to stop the Infected in question from eating the man he had begun to tear apart, thankful that he had been collecting weapons for the Amis that day. Luck had been on his side. When that man had started trying to crawl toward Javert, a look of pure hunger on his face, Bahorel had fired off a second shot. The Infection was getting serious.
That was months ago now. As Bahorel walked down the alley, loaded gun in one hand and the other hooked in his pocket, he found himself wondering how it had come to this. How the gutter dwellers had grown so ill, how the rest of society had been steadily getting more ill themselves, how the government was allowing this progression… He wondered with all of him how this had come to be. He wasn’t certain he wanted to question enough to really know, though. His thoughts were ripped from him at a sound behind him, and he spun on his heel, aiming behind him immediately. “Who’s there?”
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.
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.
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.
“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.
