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Spin, Hugo, spin!

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
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 1 here.) Everything has been backed up there. The LJ kinkmeme will stay up, but is now closed to new comments.

YAY

(Anonymous)
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.
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Courfeyrac/Enjolras please?
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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?"

"Never."

"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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porn! (Anonymous) Expand
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Courfeyrac/Cosette.
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I guess Courfeyrac is like magically alive in this one

(Anonymous)
“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.
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Javert, penance.
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Enjolras and Combeferre having gratuitously pretty, egalitarian, non-penetrative sex plz. Bonus points for intercrural.
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http://belinskya.livejournal.com/52076.html

(yeah, not doing this anonymous because I may as well own up to slash that is not crack fic)
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Combeferre/Enjolras "Art" (Anonymous) Expand
The fandom's hate to love/love to hate ship: Javert/Valjean. SMUT.
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*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!
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I hope mythological references count

(Anonymous)
“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.
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SECONDED.

Which isn't worth anything. Just sayin'.
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Enjolras and Courfeyrac 'Art"

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

Enjolras and Courfeyrac
Warnings: partial nudity

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Re: Enjolras and Courfeyrac 'Art"

(Anonymous)
It was too racy for photobucket :(
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Combeferre/Courfeyrac/Enjolras, a perfectly balanced (not necessarily equilateral) triangle. Needs not involve as much as a cravat removed, but feel free-ee.
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Mixed Media 1/1 (sorry, no slash for this one!)

(Anonymous)
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*
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Joly/Musichetta. Joly convinces Musichetta to wear her hair down, because 1830s hair is just so hideously ugly.
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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.
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You asked for it.

(Anonymous)
"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.
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Applied Phlebotomy (1/2)

(Anonymous)
"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?"

"Mm-hm."

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.
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"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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