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making Victor Hugo turn in his grave since 1885


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The Les Mis Anon Kink Meme, Round 8
and I am winterborn
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 8 here.) Everything has been backed up there. The LJ kinkmeme will stay up, but is now closed to new comments.

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Re: R kicking ass for E 5/?

(Anonymous)
He was out of practice, long hot days of wine and lounging taking their toll on his body, the thick wet gasp of his lungs betraying him to his opponent, as his chest heaved. He threw himself to the side as he blocked the blow, rolled away and back to his feet as quickly as he could. He wasn't fast enough to escape the next blow entirely, it clipped his ear and the side of his head exploded into a white bloom of pain, a thin nagging edge that inflamed him with anger and revitalised his urge to win. Put on the back foot by two blows, he rallied and thrust forward, left hand coming up with casual ease, an advantage others often lacked, and as his opponent ducked, he brought his right fist in with vicious intent. It was a solid punch to the gut, and if his opponent hadn't been well trained, it might well have ended the fight in a flurry of breathless wheezing. As it was, hard tensed muscles met his blow, an instinctive reaction on the other man's part. Still, he had reasserted himself, and the man was wary of him now, falling back to circle round, fists up and loose, eyes focused and hard as though he was re-evaluating him.

Grantaire grinned, conscious still of a second advantage. The man was not ill-looking, coarse heavy features perhaps but there was an animal vitality to him that often played well with women, and a well-shaped nose that he wouldn't want to break if he had any choice - and given his line of work had been preserved remarkably well. Grantaire's nose had been broken several times and he had never had any looks to speak of. His face he protected because past that thin layer of skin lay his brains which he had a mild and passing attachment to, but his ugliness provided him with a certain amount of willingness to risk himself, and on such a command as that which he had been given.

The moment's pause had restored his lungs to him, and disdaining to wait, he lunged. This was no formal ring, there were no rules here, no soft hidden places immune from his fists, no gentlemanly agreement to preserve future heirs. The blows between them became newly hard and punishing, Grantaire felt the trickle of blood from a split lip down his chin, and landed a blow that he knew would swell the other man's face the next day. The air was acrid and thick with the smell of sweat, and he had not an eye to spare for Enjolras or to wonder how the other man was acquitting himself, as he rammed a fist into his adversaries side, and then with a swift recovery, followed it with a blow that snapped his chin back, as the back of his knuckles connected. His hand came away wet and slippery with the freely flowing blood, and as though his ear had been clipped again, it enraged him, regalvanised him; having scented blood it seems as though nothing would do than the rest of it spilt upon the floor at his feet.

It felt good. Perhaps purpose was this. Did Enjolras feel like this when he pictured Paris rising to his call? Did the same brutal sense of exhilaration fill his veins? Grantaire doubted it, as with newly mechanical precision, he swung again and connected hard, his foe swaying comically now, as with nerveless hands he warded off Grantaire's blows, a weak feeble grasping at the air. Through his body there pounded a sense of wonder at the naked humanity revealed under his grip, the subtle lure of giving himself over to a stronger will and letting it guide him. It was without thought that he pressed his advantage, long past the time the fight had been won, slipped on the wet ground and fell, his opponent falling with him, too gone to throw out a hand even.

When they hit the floor, Grantaire stopped, the red pulse of anger fading in his veins, replaced by the bleak dullness of disgust. At what, he was hardly sure. At the heaving warmth of the other man underneath him, a slow sick writhe of pain, or at his own hands smeared with blood, perhaps even at Enjolras, who all unknowing had given him leave for a few moments to throw off his cloak of indolent ennui and allowed a madman to steal forth. He could no longer bring to mind why he had done this, and his stomach heaved an acrid mixture of bile into his throat.
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread)

Re: R kicking ass for E 6/6

(Anonymous)
He swallowed it down and bore the burn in his throat, relaxed his muscles, and looked at the man who lay beneath him now, and for no reason rested a hand on his face, smeared the blood there for a moment, before he braced himself to get up. When he looked up, Enjolras was silhouetted against the rapidly darkening sky, his face obscured by gathering shadows, a brooding presence. Grantaire was freshly aware of the blood on his hands, how Enjolras had said jump, and he had answered how high, gone above and beyond any need or want. There had been a subsumation of himself in what he had done, and the fear in that second flooded through his veins. With hasty hands he thrust those thoughts down deep enough that he need not look at them, examine how they frightened him. He dragged the shade of Grantaire up again and plastered him close, covered the thump of his heart and the need in his chest that beat a dreadful rhythm of foolish hope, unnameable emotion that he dared not untangle or peer too closely at.

He stood, and saw Enjolras look with a still face at the men on the ground - the two who had been routed now coming slowly to and making a move to drag their comrade away. There was a long silence, broken only by a wet cough. Grantaire, aware of how it looked, shrugged his shoulders casually, resettled his torn jacket and prodded his bruised jaw, anything not to meet Enjolras's eyes.

He knew that when Enjolras spoke, all would be lost. That Enjolras would see his actions as a defense of France, as some gesture of belief, some note of Grantaire accepting the cause into his heart, and the alternative weakened his knees. That Enjolras once past that first fervid acceptance of a conversion that had never happened, would probe deeper, would peel back the layers, strip ruthlessly the thin skin from Grantaire's thoughts and see the emptiness underneath, filled with a gnawing ache and longing that even Grantaire did not understand, and the thought of tender twisted thoughts exposed not just to Enjolras but to his own eyes was unbearable.

So Grantaire spoke first, snatched the words from the air, as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and profered it with a gaily mocking grin to Enjolras. "Just what I needed before dinner. A dust up in the streets. A fight is as good as a drink for settling the digestion I find - thank you for leading me to one."

It was enough. Enjolras turned away, dismissed him from his thoughts, shelved him perhaps in his mind with men who enjoyed violence not for a cause but as leisure, as a joy in brutality. Not the gleeful casual brawls of Bahorel, but something darker and uglier. Perhaps with the warmth of optimism Enjolras carried inside him, like a banked fire in his chest, there was some momentary flicker, some second of it devoted to Grantaire, the reason why he turned away without speech, but also without revilement, as though, cheated of a convert, he made do for the moment a man who walked beside him, regardless of the gulf between them.

His knuckles were raw and bloody, and his hands stained. His left eye ached, a throbbing swell that would obscure his sight in the morning, and still his stomach roiled, still he felt the phantom struggle of a man under his fists, the seething silent knowledge in himself of what he would do if it came to it, if he were looked at the right way. Next time, he vowed, he would let Enjolras walk alone.
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread)

Re: R kicking ass for E 6/6

(Anonymous)
Not the OP, but mon dieu. This was beautifully written and, ah, the angst! Poor R. Great work, anon!
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread)

Re: R kicking ass for E 6/6

(Anonymous)
Thank you! I'm really glad that you enjoyed it, and appreciate the comment.
(Frozen) (Parent) (Thread)

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