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making Victor Hugo turn in his grave since 1885

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The Les Mis Anon Kink Meme, Round 6
exit pursued by javert
10littlebullets wrote in makinghugospin
Since LJ seems to have finally capitulated to the Russian government and is now subject to Russian anti-obscenity laws, I'm not going to take a chance on sudden deletions. The Les Mis kinkmeme now lives at https://lesmiskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/. (Round 6 here.) Everything has been backed up there. The LJ kinkmeme will stay up, but is now closed to new comments.

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inspired by this TFLN


Took 45 minutes to masturbate. Fuck you Zoloft. I'm never gonna be diagnosed with depression again"

Grantaire is put on anti-depressants and sure they kinda help, but it's really harshing his masturbatory habits.

bonus points if you can make it e/R but I'm okay with just Grantaire. Or anyone being on the receiving end of that text (you don't have to include it).
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Filling this because I know that feel, Grantaire. I know that feel.
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Don't we all. #medproblems
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So here’s the thing: He’s trying. God, it sounds so clichéd and like something out of a Skins episode, but he’s honest-to-God trying to get better.

There are sacrifices because God forbid anything, ever, be easy. Gone are the days where he’d lay in bed until three, sitting up every so often to smoke a bowl and then, after finally arising at five, grab dinner with Bousset and then stay up until six am at some bar. And yes, that was kind of his ideal schedule but Grantaire’s starting to slowly realize that his ideal isn’t always healthy.

And Jesus fucking Christ, is he healthy now. Joly makes him these repulsive kale smoothies that smell like his little sister’s room when she forgets to clean the gerbil cage. He drinks every fucking drop and even chokes down a few vitamins while he’s at it. That’s how committed Grantaire is to this whole “getting his life together” thing.

Seeing a shrink had been Combeferre’s idea and after nursing what remained of his pride, Grantaire booked an appointment. It was okay. There were a fuckton of forms to fill out. When the nurse finally led him into the psychiatrist’s office, Grantaire was ready to run, but Combeferre made him promise to give it his all and like Grantaire could even let the fucking patron saint of moths down.

So he answered the questions honestly. He let the fat old doctor poke at his scars. It was like stripping naked in front of a panel of judges. Grantaire left, feeling like shit, with a prescription for Zoloft he swore never to fill.

Fucking of course Combeferre talked him into taking the meds. As if he wasn’t on enough pills with Joly’s B supplement and green tea capsules. But whatever. Grantaire feels silly admitting it but the Zoloft actually sort of works. I mean, he stills hates everyone but he hates himself a little less. The whole in his chest starts to heal. Yay. Confetti falls from the sky. A buxom blonde model presents a medal: “NOT A COMPLETE FUCK-UP.”

There’s really only one issue with all of this mature adult shit.

Grantaire lay against his mattress, breathing slowly and trying not to scream. He finally mustered the energy to grab his phone and text a quick message to Combeferre.

Took 45 minutes to masturbate. Fuck you Zoloft. I'm never gonna be diagnosed with depression again.

He didn’t even add the most embarrassing part (because he still had some dignity, God damnit), which was that after forty-five minutes of gentle rubbing, three Russian pornographic movies, and a third of a bottle of KY Jelly, he was still frustrated.

His phone vibrated. Combeferre had responded with a sarcastic You Poor Baby. Grantaire could picture his friend’s smug expression. Fuck Combeferre and his doctors and his fucking diagnoses.

God, this was hell. Enjolras was always going on about political prisoners being tortured, but this? This was easily ten times worse than any waterboarding in Guantanamo. The Taliban should put SSRIs in the water. That would be some real terrorism.

At the thought of Enjolras, his penis twitched a little. Because of fucking course, the mere mention of Enjolras did more for his dick than six extremely flexible Russian porn stars. Wasn’t that just perfect.

It was worth another shot.

Grantaire lazily reached into his boxer shorts and took his penis into his hands. It was painfully limp.

Closing his eyes, he imagined Enjolras. Nothing. He imagined Enjolras doing some kind of sexy striptease, ripping off his red sweatshirt with his teeth. Nothing. Fuck.

Like Enjolras would ever submit to some ridiculous dance, anyway. If Enjolras ever actually had sex, he wouldn’t put up with any crazy trappings. Forget Jehan’s metal handcuffs and Courfeyrac’s super powered vibrator. With Enjolras, it would be the real deal. Just skin on skin, body to body.

I mean, there’d probably be a condom. After the amount of time the kid had spent volunteering at the local HIV testing clinic, there was no way he’d go bareback. He’d probably go on a fucking speech about sexual health as he pulled it on. God, Grantaire could just picture Enjolras lapsing into public health mode as he stood, ass naked, using an unrolled condom like a fucking flag.

And then, Grantaire felt himself begin to harden.
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Re: Fill

op!anon here

everything I could have ever asked for

(even hit my kink where grantaire/enjolras' idea of dirty talk is political debate)
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Re: Fill

Holy fuck that was beautiful. Not only did it totally hit depression and Zoloft spot-on (I too know that feel, Grantaire), but the end was fucking hilarious.
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