brick life

Someone asked me if I knew who wrote Les misérables and everything I’ve seen about Victor Hugo on this site came back to me in half a second: Hugo wearing sunglasses, Hugo wearing a flower crown, Hugo posing like one of your French girls, Hugo writing naked to avoid the writer’s block, Hugo sending a living bat to his fiancée. I think I managed to only smile a little when I said yes.

anonymous asked:

random but always relevant: you know how a lot of people go on about how viktor speaking russian in bed with yuuri would make him blush and be such a kink (which yes, same, and very important lol), but what about yuuri speaking japanese, either if it just slips out or if viktor asks him to, i just can't at yuuri whining 'kimochii' ('that feels good') or 'hayaku!' ('faster!') etc, as viktor tries not to come just from hearing yuuri's whimpering voice *eyes emoji*

On that first plane ride to Hasetsu, Victor split his time between telling the lovely old woman sitting across the aisle from him about how he was on his way to find the love of his life and tripping over his own tongue while he sounded out the words in the Russian-to-Japanese dictionary he’d picked up at the airport. The pages were crammed with chaos: alphabets broken and bent into new shapes, words that had fifty different characters with one meaning, L’s rolling into unfamiliar R’s that barely found purchase in his mouth. When he finally saw Yuuri, the declaration the kind woman on his flight had helped him prepare—Iしてるの君—had turned tail and fled, leaving him to take the coward’s way out by switching to English and rattling off something about being Yuuri’s coach. That night, ensconced in his little room, he read his dictionary from cover to cover by the light of his phone, whispering every word aloud until the first rays of Japanese morning crept in to goad him into getting off his ass and trying again.

His trusty dictionary has seen some things; its pages are crinkled and ripped, dogeared into deformity, and the cover threatens to just up and disintegrate if he so much as looks at it wrong. It’s been his only line of defense the past year, a wrecking ball wielded in the face of countless cultural barriers, and he knows it so well that he could probably recite every single word by page number and line. Except one.

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Valjean & Javert doodles, pt. 7: why are there so many of them why am I like this

I’m the literal definition of putting quantity over quality, there is no quality content here

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4][part 5] [part 6] [part 7] 

[the fic that I keep mentioning] [the hungarian recording from the last pic]