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making Victor Hugo turn in his grave since 1885

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The Les Mis Anon Kink Meme
george sand
10littlebullets wrote in makinghugospin

(Loosely based on similar memes in Good Omens and other fandoms.)

Here's how it works:

Leave an anonymous comment with a kink request. Reply anonymously with fic or art fulfilling other people's kink requests. It is as simple as that.

Fiddly details:
- Feel free to make more than one request! And of course, multiple responses to the same request are allowed and encouraged.
- No stomping on other people's kinks. If you think it's gross or un-hot, you don't have to write fic for it.
- Anonymous posting is encouraged, but if you want to claim ownership of your fic, go right ahead! Don't try to guess who other people are, though, it takes some of the fun and freedom out of an anon kinkmeme.
- The definition of "kink" here is very loose, from all the fetishistic goodness your wicked hearts can imagine, to the downright silly (Javert/snuffbox!), on through the not-even-X-rated ("Enjolras kicking ass gets me hot, can somebody write it?")
- There is no time limit on the kinkmeme. There is no size limit either: you can respond with a drabble or a pornographic epic or anything in between.


Updated rules/policies now that the meme has officially turned Feckin' Huge:

- No '+1'/'seconded'/'need this like air' comments on prompts. While these do serve a purpose, they also make the meme cluttered and difficult to mod when things get busy. You're still welcome to discuss prompts, and of course any feedback whatsoever is more than welcome on fills, including the '+1' variety.
- No RPS. This is mostly for logistical reasons: the distance between fans and actors has traditionally been very small in the stage fandom, there's a lot of actor crossover between the film and the stage, and not everyone involved in the show is enough of a celebrity that they can be said to have a public persona (or that they've taken their name off Google Alerts). There is just no good place to draw that line.
- The kink meme is a place of sparkles and joy and rainbows and unicorn farts, and as such it is not the place to pick fights over... well, anything, really, but other people's tastes and/or interpretation of canon especially. There are plenty of places to tell people they're Wrong On The Internet. If you mistake the kink meme for one of them, it is not Mod's fault if you get an ice-cream headache from having your thread frozen too quickly.
- Mod reserves the right to apply reasonable standards of decent conduct, even ones not explicitly laid out in the rules. Mod reserves the right to IP-ban repeat offenders, especially ones posting in bad faith. (This is the only thing Mod will ever use your IP address for.) If you have questions or issues, or would like to draw Mod's attention to a thread that's going pear-shaped, please PM 10littlebullets or email 96belowthewave@gmail.com.

MAYDAY MAYDAY COMMENT LIMIT REACHED. Get your cute anon butts over to Round 2 unless you're replying to a prompt that's already on this post.

Round One | in ?format=light (LJ site-scheme style) | in ?view=flat (chronological, non-threaded)


OMSB OMSB OMSB I was wondering when this fandom was going to get one of these things! Yay porn! Request pending - I just couldn't hold in the excitement.

Courfeyrac/Enjolras please?

Pretty tame, might be followed by smuttier parts later. God my writing skills are rusty.

As there was no meeting to speak of that evening, they were sitting in the bustling front room of the Café Musain: Joly and Laigle sharing a bottle of the execrable house wine, Courfeyrac and Enjolras warming their hands over a pot of steaming coffee. Snow was swirling around the windows, and a gust of cold air made them look up as the door swung open.

"Joly! Bossuet! I was wondering if I would find the two of you together. This is no place to be on a cold evening. Come on, Grantaire and I have found the most wonderful place. There's no need for you to sleep alone in a cold bed tonight." Bahorel, entering in a flourish of foot-stamping and theatrical blowing on his hands, practically pulled his friends up from the table; Louison cast a baleful but resigned eye on the snow he had tracked onto the floor.

"I haven't a sou," said Laigle.

"The girls are pretty."

"I owe my landlord a quarter's rent."

"And I have it on good authority that they know a wide variety of interesting Oriental techniques--"

"All right, all right. Joly, will you lend me five francs?"

"Of course. Courfeyrac, are you coming with us?"

"Not tonight," Courfeyrac said, grinning at them as he poured the coffee. "You'll have to bring me back a full report."

"I'll take notes that would do Blondeau proud," said Laigle.

"Good evening, then!" said Courfeyrac.

"Have fun," added Enjolras. He spoke with a straight face but without a note of disapproval in his voice, and none of them could quite tell whether he was being serious or ironic.

After they left, Courfeyrac looked at him for a long moment while stirring sugar into his coffee. "What, do such escapades bother you?"

"Not particularly," said Enjolras, settling down with his own cup with reasonably good cheer; Courfeyrac suspected he might have been sincere after all. "Combeferre abstains because he can't bear to be complicit in the degradation of humanity through prostitution; I abstain because it doesn't interest me."

"Really? Bossuet's always joking about how you have no desires to repress--myself, I always thought it was out of discipline, not a lack of interest."

"Of course I have desires, and of course I repress them when they're inappropriate." Enjolras' expression abruptly closed off. "This just isn't one of them."

Courfeyrac could tell when he had touched a nerve, and could never resist the temptation to prod at it. "Are you telling me you've never desired a woman?"


"Pardieu, what do you have to repress then?"

"More dangerous and less natural desires," said Enjolras, a sad smile playing around the corners of his lips. He went back to his coffee with a look that said the subject was closed.

(continued in next comment because of LJ's character limits)

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I guess Courfeyrac is like magically alive in this one

“Dirty Blue”

When her husband is away on business, he sends one of his associates to check on her.

She tolerates it, though secretly she is a little annoyed by his protectiveness, and his preoccupation with locking things up and locking them down. But she is an understanding woman. She knows that they are respectable now, but that there was a time when they were not. Marius is no stranger to the criminal element of this city, and he has cultivated a healthy garden of paranoia from those bitter seeds.

Marius may know a thing or two about crime, but Cosette could write volumes about fear. She knows that if calamity is to come, then no lock or bolt can keep it out. No bullet or ball can stop it in its tracks.

Strangely, this thought comforts her on those nights she spends alone in the house. Though those nights are fewer now then they once were.

Courfeyrac usually shows up a little after supper, panting as if out of breath, with an apology for being late, and an elaborate tale about why he was delayed already prepared. Cosette doesn’t know for whose benefit he does this. The servants are not fooled and never have been, though they are faithful and they love their mistress and so she is not worried much.

She leads him into the parlor and feeds him on coffee and a little bit of cold meat and cheese, and they chat a little, cool and formal, about the weather, about books, about mutual acquaintances. Cosette enjoys the ritual, and she keeps it sacred like Sunday Mass.

Soon, it has grown late, and Cosette dismisses the servants. The way they leave, it’s as if nothing in the house is amiss. And so, for a while, Cosette can believe that there really is nothing strange about it.

When she returns to him, Courfeyrac is still seated, but he’s set his coffee cup aside. He’s watching her closely. And she steps forward and says something like, “The latch on the kitchen door is so hard to close. Won’t you please go and make sure it’s secure?”

And then she trails off, because his hand has come to rest on her knee.

Slowly, he raises her skirt. Past her ankle and past her knee. The first time, she wept. The second, she protested. The third, she only blushed. But now, she sinks down into his lap, her hitched skirt riding up further still. His hand is underneath it now, on her thigh, and she thinks that in the morning she will find little pills of lint on her silk stockings because he is not always so careful.

His other hand pushes into the bodice of her dress, finding her breast. More sure, she thinks with a sigh, than her husband has ever been. And two knuckles of his underskirt hand, pushing up against her, right up against the heart of her, like they’re knocking to be let in.

Sometimes she thinks that Marius must suspect what happens in his house when he’s away. Perhaps it even excites him, when he is as far from her as she is from him. But she knows that can never be anything other than a pleasant, preserving lie.

Javert, penance.

Enjolras and Combeferre having gratuitously pretty, egalitarian, non-penetrative sex plz. Bonus points for intercrural.


(yeah, not doing this anonymous because I may as well own up to slash that is not crack fic)

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The fandom's hate to love/love to hate ship: Javert/Valjean. SMUT.

*encouragement comment*

I love this ship and there's not enough smut :c

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Enjolras/Grantaire, long-term relationship which is not known by the rest of the group, having sex where the ABCs can find them (i.e. in the cafe right before/during meeting, whatever); snark and random literary references please!

I hope mythological references count

“The Spirit is Willing”

He rises like the moon, and like Endymion I follow. He has a hunter’s roving eye, and as it moves over the room I see it light briefly on Jehan, long lost in a book, on Courfeyrac and Bossuet, engaged in a game of dominos. He thinks that no one sees us go, and maybe he’s right. But I have not so much faith as him; I only think that if I can follow in his footsteps exactly, veering neither to the right nor to the left, he will guide me through the snares and pitfalls that line our path.

But I’m three bottles deep – or is it four? – this afternoon, and walking his narrow road is easier said than done.

He doesn’t look back as he cuts between the tables, but I entertain no illusions of being as Eurydice to him. We slip like shades around the corner, to the hallway that leads back to the kitchen. There’s a small cupboard there, rarely used, which can fit a man. Or two, if they stand very close.

I press close now as he shuts the door, sealing us in darkness. His nose is at my ear, and I can feel his breath whistling past. Breathing the sour smell of alcohol and sweat and the dust of the many miles laid out at my back.

It’s things like that that never fail to excite him. And he comes at me all at once, but this time I am ready. I parry, planting a hand in his chest and shoving him back. His shoulders hit a shelf stacked with cookware, and the pots and pans rattle like ghosts shaking their chains.

I can’t see his face, but I know he’s glaring at me.

I kiss him, and he relaxes a little. But I pull away quick, because neither of us have ever liked kissing much. It’s one thing we have in common. I cling to it fiercely, because there aren’t all that many. Not nearly enough to build a love affair on, but love is not what we have. Just lust, and need, and mutual convenience.

Quickly, I dart forward, like a serpent cutting through the underbrush of Eden. I unfasten his clothes; just a button here or there, enough that I can slip my hand inside and ease his cock free. Already, my own is in my other hand, and I lean forward, pushing our bodies together.

The muscles in his throat click dryly, and I know he’s working up a good moan. You wouldn’t think it from looking at him, but he screams to wake the dead.

I wrap one hand around both our cocks, giving them a good squeeze. He’s shivering now like a pup, and I clamp my free hand over his mouth to keep him quiet. His lips are parted slightly, and his tongue darts out into the hollow of my palm, lapping from my skin the taste of wine and stale smoke, dirt and grease and god only knows what else I’ve picked up along the way.

It seems to me, though, that he likes what he finds there, because he keeps his mouth pressed into my hand. His breath hard, and hot, and humid as I work us both with my fist. His hands move up my back, nails cutting into my shoulders, and I give him a little flick with the tip of my thumb by way of reward.

His pulse leaps; I feel it against my plying fingers. Like Osiris, he dies. It’s a full minute before he’s reborn. By then, I’ve cleaned us up a little. Made him presentable. That sort of thing.

He hesitates a moment, there in the darkness, and then he reaches out and touches my face. It’s as if he’s curious to see if it’s changed. What he discovers there, I will never know. For it’s then that he swings open the door to the little cupboard, and by the time my eyes have adjusted to the light, he’s gone.

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Jehan/Bahorel, over the top Romanticism.


Which isn't worth anything. Just sayin'.

Enjolras and Courfeyrac 'Art"

This is probably rather unanonymous, I suspect, if you're familiar with the smudgy style.

Enjolras and Courfeyrac
Warnings: partial nudity

Re: Enjolras and Courfeyrac 'Art"

It was too racy for photobucket :(

Combeferre/Courfeyrac/Enjolras, a perfectly balanced (not necessarily equilateral) triangle. Needs not involve as much as a cravat removed, but feel free-ee.

Mixed Media 1/1 (sorry, no slash for this one!)

Whenever Feuilly tries to imagine the future, his mind produces artistic metaphors. Sitting in Corinthe sketching figures for his fans and listening to Enjolras outline principles in the background, he fancies he hears the line art for the Republic being laid down. Feuilly outlines in pencil, but Enjolras outlines in pen: crisp lines, black and white, absolute, awe-inspiring and a little unsettling in his knowledge that he will never have to erase or cross out or adjust.

Courfeyrac provides the color of course. The things that Enjolras sketches with such stark beauty take on a sort of life, or rather a sort of vivacity, when Courfeyrac fills them in with his witticisms and his colorful language and his gestures. And Combeferre, with his subtleties and his refinements, is the shading, lending depth and nuance to the proceedings, softening the stark lines without deviating from their course.

To listen to Enjolras and Combeferre talk is to witness a sketch in progress: no matter how exquisitely detailed it will never quite be true to life, limited as it is to the blacks and whites of theory and the greys in between. And Enjolras and Courfeyrac at work take on something of the cartoonish, crisp and colorful and using life's full palette, and also utterly unsubtle.

Those crisp lines are nowhere to be seen in the final painting, though; the color and the shadow are enough to make everything take shape. Just like Feuilly knows in his bones that whatever happens to the rest of them, Enjolras will not be there on the day the Republic is declared. Enjolras will serve his country better as a martyr than as a statesman.

Enjolras is too rigid, too unreal to be in the final picture. But Feuilly doesn't want to imagine conquering the blank page without him.

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Joly/Musichetta/Bossuet, with Musichetta as the conduit for Joly and Bossuet's homoerotic passion, just as Hugo intended. *innocent look*

Joly/Musichetta. Joly convinces Musichetta to wear her hair down, because 1830s hair is just so hideously ugly.

Yes please!

Well actually annything with Joly would be welcome

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Let's pretend there was a point in me logging out to make this request...

Montparnasse/anyone and everyone... noncon would be particularly interesting. Please.

You asked for it.

"Beautiful, the Axe"

He had now: a blanket and a place by the window where a little wedge of sunlight crept in for one hour every day. Montparnasse had once so loved the night that it surprised now how much he looked forward to the sun.

Or was surprised the wrong word? It seemed to indicate that Montparnasse was still capable of violent emotion. Once he had been a crackling sheathe of rages and passions and obsessions that towered over and terrified even his comrades in consciencelessness. But these days, he felt very little that was not hunger, or cold, or that nagging tightness that stole into his chest after a long labor beneath the millwheel and the lash.

For the first month, he had longed for a woman. He dreamed that they stole into his miserable bed at night, and that they were tender and wanton and cruel all in equal measure. That they stroked the back of his neck where his curls had once been, and then slapped him in the mouth so hard he tasted blood.

He imagined faceless girls with bodies as cold and featureless as marble. So quickly did his mind sketch them that they lacked nipples and navel, and their legs tapered into nothingness below their knees. Their cunts were as impersonal as paintings of orchids.

But the first winter of hard labor had been enough to freeze the lust in him permanently. Montparnasse was not strong, but he was ruthless. And he had gathered together in his mind all those girl-ghosts, those banshees, those wisps of smoke and blue silk as slippery as the crust of ice that formed over the water basin in the morning. He had thrown them all on the pyre, and the flames had blazed up and warmed him.

And he was still alive.

Yes, alive, gloriously so. And he would live longer still. For he was not without his charms. They had cropped his hair close to his skull, and they had fed him on scraps and rot and worms until his face had become gaunt and deeply devoted in the cheeks. They had lashed him and caged him until his eyes became like the eyes of a dog. But he still remembered a thing or two. He knew how to turn his body to make it seem lean rather than thin; he knew how to look up through his lashes and smile a ravenous kind of smile.

This blanket, this sunlight. A bit of meat once in a while, or a reprieve from work when the rain came down. He had bought them all. On his knees, or on his back, he had paid dear for them.

They crept into his bed at night, and stroked the back of his neck where his hair wasn’t. And Montparnasse laughed so suddenly that they were startled, and they struck him across the face and his nose burst into blood. The blood ran backwards, down his throat, and he was glad for that. His mouth was dry, but the blood made it slick enough that he could do what he had to do.

Dragged, half-swooning, to his knees, Montparnasse’s fingers flew over the clasp of a belt, the little catches that ran down the front of a pair of breeches. The cock that nudged out into his hands belonged to no one in particular. The face that floated in the darkness above him was without feature or form.

And they always came quickly, with a sigh and shudder. And Montparnasse choked down the bitter seed that filled his mouth and it settled uneasily on his empty stomach. No sense in wasting the protein.

When they were gone, Montparnasse lay back, pinching his bloody nose and thinking that he had bought himself another day, another week.

And thinking, always thinking, of the axe that was poised to swing down. Upon him. Upon them all.

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Joly getting off on blood-letting? It doesn't matter whether it's his own or someone else's.

Applied Phlebotomy (1/2)

"Thank you for letting me practise on you."

"I should be thanking you. Not only have you saved me the trouble of fetching a doctor over such a little fever, you've probably saved me from a premature death at the hands of overzealous physicians."

"Mm-hm." Joly was too busy examining his lancet to respond to this insult to the medical profession. Truth be told, he was too nervous to really listen to what Courfeyrac was saying. "Hold out your arm," he said when satisfied with the sharpness of the lancet.

"You're awfully pale, Jolllly," said Courfeyrac. "Do we have to attempt a transfusion from me to you? --ow!" For Joly had made a halfhearted attempt to prick his inner arm.

"Quiet. It's not my fault you have small veins."

"Ow! Ow, be careful. I should've know better than to tease the man with the blade in his hand, shouldn't I?"


Joly took a few deep breaths and reminded himself that all was not lost yet. Just because he had never before succeeded in distinguishing the median cephalic vein from the median basilic didn't mean he wouldn't manage it this time. He took Courfeyrac's arm in both hands and examined the crook of his elbow minutely. The inside of his arm was much paler than the outside, which had been tanned by--probably some outdoor idyll with his mistress, or a day spent swimming to escape the July heat. The dark hairs on his arm had been bleached white by the sun, and--the veins. He had to focus on the veins. Was that it? It had all been so much clearer in his anatomy textbook.

That one. It was probably that one. He took up his lancet, one finger pressed to the point he thought was the right vein.

"Having trouble finding a pulse? You might have to declare me legally dead if you can't find one. That would annoy my father most wonderfully, really throw a wrench into his lawsuit over the inheritance from my--"

"Save the joking for when I've opened the vein, for god's sake."

Courfeyrac's skin was hot and clammy from the fever, Joly's hands were cold and clammy from nerves. It seemed strangely, awkwardly intimate to be feeling around at the pale tender skin searching for the right vein to pierce. But now he was almost sure that the blood vessel pressed under his thumb was in fact the median cephalic vein. Before he could lose it, or lose his nerve, he brought the lancet in and made a swift incision.

"There!" said Courfeyrac. "That wasn't so awful, was it?"

"I'm still not entirely sure I have the right vein," Joly said, staring at his handiwork. Impossible to tell whether he'd got it right, but the bloodletting itself was at least a pretty piece of work. His hand had been sure and the wound was neat; he had gone deep enough that the blood was flowing freely. Some dry, scientific corner of his mind congratulated him on a job well done. The rest of him was occupied in staring at the steady stream of blood flowing from Courfeyrac's arm into the pan. Courfeyrac's pulse was strong enough to be visible: a little gush of blood accompanied every beat of his heart. Joly swallowed, his throat dry.

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Combeferre/Jehan, featuring Jehan's fabulous wardrobe. Smut preferred. Bondage optional.

Bonus points if Combeferre is being a total dork.

"Hold on one moment, can't you? I've got to get this off."

"But I like the doublet."

"Yes, but you can't wash ejaculate out of velvet. I don't need to have that conversation with my laundress again. It took me three months to find the right shade of red as it is!"

(I bring nothing other than LOLs and a total seconding of this motion)

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Grantaire/Jehan. Absinthe involved. Sex not necessary, but appreciated.

I was going to try to write this as dialogue-only..

(but then I realized that was going to make the sex really weird.)

“Party Games”

“You see, Jehan, it’s something I invented just this very afternoon.”

“And it’s some kind of game, you say?”

“Yes, a game. A set of events are agreed upon in advance by the players, and whenever one such event happens, all players have to drink. It’s a sort of… drinking game, if you will.”

“I don’t want you to take this as an insult, Grantaire, but I don’t think you invented that.”

“No? Well, I suppose the ancient Athenians had drinking games. They thought up practically everything else. But I’ve definitely rediscovered it. Now, shall we agree to terms?”

“T-terms? I’m sure I don’t know what you—“

“Now look here, Jehan. You really ought to take this more seriously. What’s say we take a drink every time Joly suffers a brush with death? And another drink every time Combeferre moons after that golden Apollo who’s always hanging around. On second thought, if we did that we’d be dead of drink before the sun rises…”

“How about we take a drink every time Courfeyrac pesters one of the factory girls until she’s about to scream?”

“That’s it! Now you’re in the spirit.”

And in this way did the hours pass. The moon was high by the time they left the Corinth. Arm in arm, laughing and singing a ribald song that Jehan was trying hard to learn and Grantaire was trying hard to remember. Their spirits were high, and a cloud of anise and enigmas hung around them, so thick that a pair of gentlemen on their way to the theater crossed the street to avoid them.

This caused them to burst into laughter, and then redouble their efforts to make it through more than a single verse at a stretch of Grantaire’s song.

“And as I went home on Thursday night as drunk as drunk could be
I saw two boots beneath the bed where my old boots should be
Well, I called me wife and I said to her: Will you kindly tell to me
Who owns them boots beneath the bed where my old boots should be”

In the dark, they stumbled up the stairs to Grantaire’s apartment, giggling and shushing each other like schoolgirls. Under cover of night, they fitted the key into the lock and tumbled inside. And when Grantaire took his arm and tugged him towards the bed in the back, it seemed to Jean Prouvaire like the most natural thing in the world.

Grantaire pushed him down on his back, and Jean Prouvaire was not opposed to being prodded, and he did not resist when Grantaire began to rid him of his stifling and troublesome clothes.

“Oh, you old hound,” he murmured. “You tomcat. This was the real game all along, wasn’t it?”

Grantaire did not answer; his mouth was otherwise engaged. He was kissing a damp line down Jean Prouvaire’s chest, pausing to drag a nipple past his lips, swirling his tongue around it.

Jean Prouvaire moaned, a startled sound, like a dove spooked into flight. Grantaire’s mouth was then clamped over his, and though Jean Prouvaire could not say for certain how it had gotten there, he could taste absinthe lurking there, lurking behind his teeth and under his tongue, and he was strangely comforted.

A hand fumbled between his legs. It took Jean Prouvaire a moment to realize it was not his own, and the discovery roused – amongst other things – a keen intellectual curiosity. Fingers slid into him – one, two, three – and Jean Prouvaire had to admit he felt little pain and much pleasure indeed.

“Now?” Grantaire panted. And then promptly answered his own question. “Now. Now…”

He shifted his weight. His hipbones cut into Jean Prouvaire’s thighs. And then, with a sharp jerk, he was within.

Jean Prouvaire threw his head back and gulped air. Grantaire’s mouth descended on his throat and found - by luck or skill, neither of them could say – the sensitive juncture of neck and shoulder. Jean Prouvaire clutched him close with one hooking arm, and, one by one, all the stars above burned out.

Enjolras with anyone. As long as it's Enjolras against the wall being explicitly and gratuitously driven out of his mind with pleasure. Bonus points if he comes multiple times. >:D

Victoire (1/3)

Enjolras had returned to the café Musain after an unsatisfactory meeting with the Cougourde. Grantaire's utter failure at Richefeu's had put him in a vile mood, and when he heard the back door of Musain slam shut, he assumed it was Grantaire slinking in to grovel and apologise.

It was, however, a much smaller figure who had returned. “'Feuilly, isn't it?' That's the best you can do? 'Feuilly, isn't it?' Not much a cover.”

“How did it go?”

“Everyone is set and waiting for the word. What is the word? When is the word? I don't know, I tell them, the chief doesn't know, they'll know when I know.”

“What are the weapons stocks?”

“Fifteen muskets of various antiquity, five pistols, and a wide variety of blades from various sources. They are making bullets but have no gunpowder. I didn't come back alone to report what can be known by others,” Feuilly complained. “I want to know what the hell kind of cover story that was.”

“Did you want it known how well I know you?”

“Are you ashamed of where you picked me up?”

“Shouldn't you be?”

“Oh, that's right, you don't acknowledge me when I'm dressed like this.” Feuilly threw his cap down on the table and stripped off his smock.

“Feuilly, please!”

“You've seen me far less than half-dressed before.” He started forward, and Enjolras stepped back. “So this is how it goes. I can acknowledge you in public only when you pretend to deign to notice my very existence, or if I'm wearing a dress, but not if I come to you on equal terms.” Another step forward, and Enjolras again stepped back.

“Feuilly, we are in public.”

“I know perfectly well we are. That's the issue.” Feuilly had him backed to the wall now, and while Enjolras could simply move to the side and release himself if he chose, he felt unable to move, his field of vision taken up by the fire in Feuilly's dark eyes and the overwhelming desire to kiss him, a desire he felt he must hold back as there was an attempt at a serious discussion going on. “I'm good enough for you to fuck, I'm good enough to run messages for you, but I'm not good enough to be acknowledged by your equals.”

He was very close, indeed, now, and had to put a hand against the wall to balance himself. Enjolras could smell his sweat, and the brandy on his breath he must have taken in solidarity at the Glacière, and possibly a hint of paint thinner. Feuilly had not been working properly lately, he knew, but perhaps he had managed to fall into a one-off decorating job. It was very difficult not to put his hand around Feuilly's waist and pull him into an embrace. “What do you want me to say?” Enjolras managed to spit out. “You don't want them to know, and I don't want them to know, and if someone did by chance recognise you, would they not put the pieces together?”

“None of them come to the hall. That's why you come to the hall.” Feuilly's other hand found Enjolras' hip. Their bodies were very, very close together, and only the scene was unfamiliar.

“Feuilly, please. Get dressed and go. Someone might come in.” In another man's mouth, it would have been a calm, firm order, but Feuilly knew Enjolras too well to miss the signs of fracture, the merest hint of begging in his blue eyes.

Instead of backing off, Feuilly stood on tiptoe and forced a kiss on him, lips pressed hard against teeth, resisting and yet yielding. With one hand and much practice, Feuilly unbuttoned Enjolras' trousers and squeezed his cock, already straining at its woolen prison. “If someone comes in, let them come in,” he said with a touch of sarcasm. Enjolras usually told him off for being sarcastic, but Enjolras was in no position to say anything beyond a few gasps of pleasure, greater or lesser depending on the ways in which he permitted Feuilly to nibble at his jaw or nip at his ear. With the merest break to spit into his hand, Feuilly began dubbing him fiercely.

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Multiple Amis (author's choice!), bondage and light submission, preferably one boy tied up and blindfolded and the others taking turns.

Oh yes! Oh yes! That would be so...oh wow.

Someone please do this one!

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Bottom!Enjolras. With any of the Amis.

Night of Rest (1/2)

Grantaire suspected that he had not seduced Enjolras, so much as Enjolras had led Grantaire into seducing him. There was a deep sort of satisfaction in Enjolras' eyes after Grantaire finally screwed up the courage to kiss him, one night in the Café Musain when Enjolras was working late and everyone else had left. "Wait," Enjolras had said, haggard from too many late nights spent working on something Grantaire did not, could not, would never understand. He touched his lips where Grantaire had kissed him. "Wait until I'm done. Then we can continue this conversation."

It wasn't a conversation. There were no words. And yet it was more of an exchange than most of the words that flew between them on ordinary nights. So Grantaire waited until Enjolras put his pen down and nodded, and then he kissed him again, and Enjolras--instead of taking Grantaire in his arms and kissing him firmly, as he had always dreamed--leaned into the embrace and parted his lips to allow Grantaire's tongue in his mouth.

Grantaire couldn't identify what, but something in that gesture frightened him, made him freeze up. "Why me, anyway?" he mumbled. "Why not one of them--one of the ones you like, you rely on--"

"Because you're not one of them," Enjolras murmured patiently in his ear. "It would be wrong to do this with one of them. You don't have to try to be one of them right now. Stop being afraid."

It took a few minutes--a few minutes filled with cautious kisses and tender embraces that clearly tried Enjolras' patience--for Grantaire to puzzle out what he meant. Enjolras wanted Grantaire to take the lead. Why? Because Grantaire was not one of the men he led. Grantaire was something else, not part of the great revolution that Enjolras had planned out perfectly in his mind. That stung. What stung even more was the sudden, paralyzing fear that Enjolras had allowed all this because he was weary of carrying the entire revolution in his mind.

"So you're sick of it?" he whispered, feeling sick himself. "Sick of them, sick of being responsible for them, desperate for something else?"

"No," says Enjolras sharply. "I've fulfilled my duties for this evening," gesturing to the table where the papers were neatly stacked, "and would like a night of rest so that I can take them up again with renewed force tomorrow."

That took another minute, but for once in his life Grantaire felt like he understood Enjolras a little bit. "All right," he said, "if that's what you want." A man who came to an inn after a long day's walk and took off his boots before the fire wasn't sick of the journey, after all, just resting his feet for the next day's march. So he pushed his fear aside and kissed Enjolras deeply and started unbuttoning his clothes.

"Here?" Enjolras murmured. "Now?" Clearly he hadn't planned for the tryst itself to take place in the Musain's back room, but Grantaire kissed him hard and pulled his shirt and waistcoat open, exposing his bare torso to the air.

"Yes," said Grantaire, "yes, I want you now."

Enjolras bowed his head, accepting the decision.

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Enjolras/Prouvaire. Sex not necessary.

Combeferre/Prouvaire. Mentions of André Chenier.

No matter who with whom, but the cat is watching.

Slowly, crisply moving towards the highest position, they wait, watching, observing. Stretching, they settle into their loft, eyes widened and pert, waiting. Waiting. They observe, but say nothing, adjusting their shoulders and waiting.

Watching two partially clothed figures argue with each other, watching her melt away into her own submission, watching him plead with her.


"Azelma, my love! Really!" Montparnasse pressed to her. "You can't tell me you didn't enjoy last night?"

Azelma looked down at her hands, and pulled on her own fidgeting fingers. The tips of her fingers brushed over the scars that plagued her right hand, her lip trembled and her eyes would not meet his. "I suppose..so…" she admitted. She was clearly embarrassed her cheeks blazing a bright pink.

This was ridiculous. The night before, she had even taken top position! What was this miserable shy business now? This would never do. He couldn't do this every night, redoing what he had accomplished the night before. "Are you still sore?" he teased, trying to get her to soften a little. Azelma wrinkled her nose at him.

"A little…" she admitted. Montparnasse secretly delighted in this.

"But you liked it?" he pressed.

Azelma nodded, reluctantly. "I've… never felt anything like that before. Any of it." Montparnasse wasn't sure if he believed that, but pried a little further to see if she would say he was the best she'd ever had. He was convinced that was the answer.

"I didn't know I would ever like it," she blushed. Montparnasse stared at her. Something now crossed his mind that had never occurred to him before: was this Azelma's first time enjoying herself? His thoughts were interrupted as she continued. "I'd have another men… have me," her eyes looked to him, shining in admiration. "..but none of them were as attentive as you are, darling."

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Marius/Cosette/Courfeyrac, where at least one of the three is dead. Can be AU, sex unnecessary.

An Education, Part 1 (1/3)

This is getting way longer than expected. Like multi-part way longer than expected.

“Missionary again? Christ, even she's bored!”

Marius was not exactly in a position to look around at where any voice might be coming from. But the voice may have had a point – Cosette was turned away from him, her eyes closed, as he thrust into her. When he came and pulled out, she merely rolled away,wrapping the blankets around her.

“Did you hear something?” Marius asked.

“No,” she murmured. “Go to sleep.”

Yes, after six months of marriage, she was bored. Marius lay back and unfortunately heard the voice again. “You see? I told you so. You're bored, she's bored, and how many times do you have to be told? You only get a male heir if she orgasms, and at this rate, she might as well have stayed in the convent.” It was a very familiar voice. “Convent. Yes, she'd be having much more fun in the convent. I always thought you'd found the most virginal creature imaginable, but she's adorable, and I'd gladly take her if I still had corporeal form.”

Marius winced. Courfeyrac. I've gone mad, he thought. Completely around the bend. That or my grandfather is now somehow pretending to be my dead best friend. “Cosette, did you hear that?”

She groaned. “There's nothing to hear. Go to sleep.”

But Marius got up and wrapped a dressing gown around himself. “I need to think.” He kissed her on the cheek before leaving her alone in bed.

It was late enough that the house was asleep, and Marius could pace back and forth in the salon without interruption.

“Ah, I've got you alone now.”

“Why must you haunt me?”

“I haven't the first clue. I think I'm being punished by the most boring situation possible for a ghost. Am I a ghost? I have no idea what I am. I do know I came to consciousness in your bedroom three nights ago and have been forced to watch you behave like a fumbling adolescent with your darling wife these three nights straight. I cannot take it any longer.”

Marius looked around wildly. “Where are you?”

“I have no idea. Where can I be if I have no body? If I had to suggest a space, sort of near the fireplace, I guess.”

There was patently no one anywhere near the fireplace, but Marius directed his attention to the general area. “This is a form of madness that could not have been predicted. You were my best friend by force of circumstance; Cosette fills that role now.”

“Pontmercy, my dear chap, force of circumstance? Really? You permitted yourself no friends at all by force of circumstance. I was your only friend because I couldn't bear to let you disappear into the depths and end up dying alone. No human being deserves that, young or old, male or female. You could never entirely resist me because I never let you. Cosette is not filling that role at all.”

“I have no need of you now.”

“Oh, but your need continues. You never let me teach you much of anything. You never let your grandfather teach you much of anything. He has the best books! If watching you bed your wife is hell, the opportunity to rifle through your grandfather's collection is heaven.”

“How can you rifle through anything if you have no body?”

“I don't know, but I can. Oh, look, I dropped this hideous vase.” And indeed, a rather unattractive vase came tumbling from the mantle, untouched by any visible hands. It stopped short of crashing to the floor, hovered in midair for a moment, then came to rest gently, in an upright position, next to the fire irons.

“I have gone mad. Dear god. I have gone completely mad.”

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Enjolras topping fiercely, doesn't matter who.

Untitled (warnings for dubcon-ish)

Feuilly was not sure how he'd be able to bear it -- if that tension were to make his white hands rough against him, his composure shatter completely. Enjolras angry was terrifying, but even the righteous fire that lit him up, tight-strung displeasure infusing every gesture, did not cause so much pain as the sight of him truly shaken. Eyes hurrying from disciple to disciple, questing like a lost child for some sign of recognition. He had entered the meeting that shaken up, gold hair a mess (from pulling at it?) and coat askew. He would not speak of who or what had disturbed him. But the look in his eyes -- as they froze again, took again that aspect that could cut glass as the conversation picked up again and he was soothed -- Feuilly was not sure of what that meant at the time, but he knew now. It had lasted the meeting out, and then they had retired, the others dispersing and only the two of them caring to linger. That last shred of self-control had lasted until they were in his rooms, and no longer.

It was more pleasant when he was the reluctant lover. Rather than too eager. Foregoing anything egalitarian or seeming the least bit Greek. Apollo in a hurry. Feuilly isn't a docile creature himself in bed, but he wouldn't dare leave fingernail-marks on that broad white back or any sort of mark, or sign. Enjolras does not even kiss his mouth but skips right ahead to smothering him in lovebites, breathing hotly. Smothering is not the right word. Every movement of his body is deliberate and forceful, each sucking bruising kiss placed with mechanical precision. And yet he is abandoned, wild. His body is rigid with control, his cock is hard, and he's not the calmly deliberate lover of yesterday. Feuilly moans a little, not wholly from pleasure. His thighs part but he cannot look him in the face. Feuilly bites his lip and keeps silent.

That hard Grecian mouth deposits little kisses and they burn, they blaze like nothing else. They might as well be hot coals or drops of wax, trailing down the fanmaker's breast, and then with his fine white teeth he bites.

His arms are tangled in his shirtsleeves, and Enjolras has a grip on the fabric as well as his wrist -- it is not quite as if he were bound, with a pretty sort of silk scarf indeed, but it strains his shoulders painfully and keeps him incapacitated. Enjolras against him, on top of him --

Enjolras draws a wordless breath through gritted teeth, and it carries to mortal ears the weight of a blasphemy.

"Gabriel, I need to --" His voice hitches on asking permission and he forces on anyway, fingers thrusting roughly between Feuilly's legs. It's not unerotic, just unexpected. His other hand frees the wrist but pushes his shoulder down hard; Feuilly arches and the first thrust takes place, without anything to ease it.

Victor Hugo/Louise Michel. He calls her (or she insists on being called) Enjolras.

OH GOD THIS ACTUALLY SORT OF HAPPENED. At least. Graham Robb suggests that Louis BMichel literally baring her breast to Hugo a few days before the Commune might make an interesting commemorative stamp for particularly broad-minded socialists.


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