#sathfic lm

[sathinfection]

For the ask box fic thing, Bahorel/Jehan Prouvaire, 2.

things you said through your teeth

“That waistcoat is appalling,” Bahorel hissed. 

“You’re hardly one to talk,” Prouvaire replied, smoothing down the fabric of his unicorn tapestry waistcoat. 

[sathinfection]

a bunch of macaron-i

a much-belated fic for feuillyova

There was a conspiracy on the Rue de la Verrerie. Every morning, from seven to nine, Carl left Courfeyrac’s bed and absconded from the household. Marius was determined to get to the bottom of the mystery while Courfeyrac was still sleeping off his evening brandy.

Tracking a dog unnoticed ought to have been difficult, but God had spared the Pug most of the animal senses. Carl left the house by pawing at the door until their landlady grew tired of the scratching and let him out with a grumbled “fais pipi.” He barely moved his watery eyes from side to side to check for a tail before pawing off his collar and leaving it with a beggar. Carl began to walk with a noticeable scamper as he turned down a street well-known to Marius.

The smell of freshly made dessert wafted out from one of the finest pâtisseries in Paris (and all the pâtisseries in Paris were already quite fine). Carl let himself in. Marius waited for the baker to throw Carl out, but no such thing happened. Instead, Marius pressed his nose to the glass as his indignant breath almost fogged up his view of Carl’s morning scam.

“Oh, my poor little homeless thing! You have returned to me with nothing but skin on your bones!” the baker cooed, rubbing the rolls of fat around Carl’s neck. “Here, I have more macarons for you. Perhaps the little monsieur will snaffle another?”

Little monsieur did. It was too much for Marius. He slammed the door open, pointing his finger at Carl’s pastry-besmirched jowls.

“J’accuse! This dog is a liar! He is no indigent pup - he doesn’t deserve that pastry. He hid his collar and came here under false pretenses.”

Carl swallowed his last bite of macaron decisively before turning his head. The baker was holding a petits-four.

“Are you feeling unwell, boy?” the baker asked.

“No, I am feeling betrayed.”

The baker seemed confused, though Marius had no idea how he could have been more clear that Carl was behaving dishonestly. The baker put one hand on Marius’s shoulder and gave him the petits-four with the other.

“You look a bit skinny yourself.  Why don’t you eat some pastries and then you and the dog can go back to whoever’s keeping you?”

Tears filled Marius’s eyes. Carl was, with one exception (Marius), an excellent judge of character.

[sathinfection]

the ghost and m. pontmercy

for smokefall

Marius was wretched.

Cosette was gone from his world. She’d said something about the rights of women, achieving self-agency, and a lesbian commune in Florida, and then she packed her luggage and left.

It was as if Cosette had taken all the warmth with her. In fact, there was often a cold breeze when Marius was feeling at his worst.

Was it a medical condition? Probably. It might be a sign of consumption. Could loneliness make someone’s nipples hard?

Carl was not himself either. He had taken to staring at nothing at all, and peeing in the pattern of his dead friend Courfeyrac’s name on the floor. Then there were the mysterious messages left in the dust which had overtaken Marius’s furniture, saying, “my dear fellow, you are alone in this world but not the next.”

Marius retreated into his study, and saw that just like yesterday, there was a glass of brandy and piece of dessert next to his most comfortable chair. Oh, if only he were still loved! Marius heaved himself into the chair with a sigh. He glanced over the note left by the mille-feuille.

To the booby, esq.,

You are being seduced. Should you desire it, please remove your clothing and stand in the northwest corner, where I can do miraculous things with magnetic fields and the natural crossbreeze.

Your eternal friend,

[illegible scribbling] Courfeyrac

Marius began to wonder if he might be haunted. No, that was too ridiculous to contemplate - the letter was surely one of Carl’s prank. Marius congratulated himself on not being a fool as he bit into his pastry.

[sathinfection]

pont sans mercy

for clenster

Death became Enjolras. Grantaire, not so much.

“Afterlife, I deny you,” Grantaire declared, gesturing capaciously. Not having a body had made him even more theatrical. “And yet the gates of Hell will still not open for me. Perhaps if Satan were munching on my backside I could have a glass of wine.”

“Perhaps had you betrayed me, you’d feel the cold on your own ass, instead of chilling others,” Enjolras said. His ghostly arms were crossed and he looked down his fine, albeit invisible, nose at Grantaire.

“There are so many reasons I deserve Hell. The real Hell, with the demons and the eternal torment. This? Where we are now? It is Purgatory. A Purgatory of Pontmercy.”

Ghosts are often tied to the ones they cared for in life. Grantaire was the satellite of Enjolras. As all of Enjolras’s friends were dead, save one, they had found themselves to be Marius’s unwilling houseguests.

“Do you really think there is a worse Hell than Marius’s nuptial bed?” Enjolras asked.

“Yes. A child’s birthday party. Come with me, and let’s try to sin our way to the lower depths.”

Grantaire dragged Enjolras out of the closet where they had been hiding from a rousing chorus of "Joyeux Anniversaire." A sudden chill descended upon the smiling children as Grantaire manifested himself in the middle of the table, displaying the bloody wounds from his execution.

They screamed in terror and ran for the door. But sprawled across the doorway was Enjolras, arms akimbo, howling about the necessity of free education.

And so it was that the birthday of little Jean Jean-Marie Jean Pontmercy was ruined.

[sathinfection]

sing, muse

and another commission for the inspiring soemily

enjolras/grantaire, canon era, missing barricade scene

In some versions of this story, the silence of a quiet night is enough to rouse a dead drunk from slumber.

Enjolras paced the back room of the Corinth. He had shot the artillery-man; his cheek still felt wet from crying, though he’d wiped his face again and again. What a strange night of tears and kisses, before he died.

For he knew that he would die soon after the rosy fingers of dawn crept over Paris. Perhaps Enjolras would be a better leader if he could pretend otherwise.

Grantaire was still face-down on the table, his poisonous wine replaced with aquafortis.

“No thoughts of mortality for Dionysus,” Enjolras said, feeling himself sneer. Why? Grantaire made no difference, conscious or unconscious. “Or perhaps it is Pan, head dragged down by his horns.”

What would Grantaire do if he woke up? Run?

No, it truly made no difference now. Enjolras took the empty seat next to him.

“Do you think my death will be seemly, Grantaire?” He contemplated how he could die badly, fearfully, but he knew cowardice was not in him - along with many other things. Enjolras did not expect to feel so deficient at his end. Lonely. He found himself reaching for Grantaire’s hand.

Unseen by Enjolras, Grantaire’s eyes were open beneath his lashes. He would have said something, if there could be covenants between men and lions.

[sathinfection]

easy A

starting on my commission fics tonight, and here's my commission for the super-awesome and talented punforrestpun

gros & grantaire, chicagoverse

The only way Grantaire would ever pass figure drawing was crying in his arms. It wasn’t too unusual to meet up with a professor at a bar instead of his office - he was at art school, after all - but Gros had kept on drinking way past ‘eccentric.’

“I don’t think your art is outdated. Your art’s an inspiration. I’m working so much harder now,” Grantaire said, patting Gros’s back. Gros’s sobbing quieted.

“But you know, I’ve had a lot going on and I know I’ll never have your skill as a draftsman…”

Gros stiffened.

“Can I have an extension?”

[sathinfection]

grantaire must find homes for comet's puppies

HIDEOUS PUPPIES - FULLY VETTED - $40 TO ACCEPTING HOME ONLY

My ugly, half-blind, three-legged dog had puppies, and I need to get rid of the little abominations. My vet friend gave them all their shots and said that they’re healthy, outside of looking like eldritch horrors. Real conversation pieces! 

[sathinfection]

face squirrels in chicagoverse hue hue hue

“I know it sounds ridiculous,” Bossuet said, dipping his donut in his coffee as they entered the fourth hour of what must be their fortieth stake-out of Mayor Madeleine, “but have you considered that Chief might have specially trained police squirrels instead of muttonchops?”

Grantaire almost choked on the samosa he’d confiscated from a jaywalking hipster.

“It’s the only logical explanation for why he keeps all the nuts on his desk.”