eirenical fic

kingesstropolis  asked:

Maybe Prouvaire and Feuilly with #9 for the hurt/comfort prompt?

So… I was grading things and it was annoying me, so I started digging through my Inbox looking for writing meme things I never answered and I stumbled across this one from this meme and, really, @kingesstropolis, this is ALL your fault, because I only think of Jehan as “Prouvaire” in Muet context and so, NATURALLY this gave me all kinds of lovely Muet thoughts and well… here we are?  I’M SURE YOU’RE UNHAPPY ABOUT THAT.  Consider this an outtake from Chapter 4.  ^_^

(To those of you unfamiliar with Muet-verse… this is NOT a happy fic.  This fic is massively, massively fucked up, and Prouvaire is possibly the most fucked up person in it.  That being said… in his own way, he really IS trying to bring the comfort…?

…yeah, I don’t find that reassuring, either.  OTZ)

If anyone wants to send me new prompts for this meme, go ahead.  ^_^


[…] = indicates telepathy

9. “You look sad”

[You look sad, Feuilly.  Shall I kiss it and make it better?]

The voice was a bare whisper in the dark, barely a hint of tone to separate it from Feuilly’s own thoughts.  It was enough.  Feuilly opened his eyes, forcing the rest of his body into stillness, though every instinct was screaming at him that he should run.

You don’t run from a predator.  It only excites the hunting instinct.  

And the tone in Prouvaire’s voice left no doubt in Feuilly’s mind… he was here to hunt.

Feuilly cleared his throat.  “I won’t deny it.”

[Of course, you won’t.]

Prouvaire edged closer, the movement too sinuous, too sinister, to be called a step, his green eyes gleaming in the reflected light from outside.  In moments like these, he was a fey creature, like something dreamed up by a child’s mind on the cusp between a nightmare and a dream… all dark silhouette and gleaming green eyes.  When Prouvaire finally reached him, slowly moved to straddle his legs, it was all Feuilly could do not to bolt right out of the chair.

Don’t run.

[Who needs Enjolras?  Let R have him.  I can make you happy.]

Prouvaire slid closer, perched first on Feuilly’s ankles, then his shins, then his thighs, finally came to rest with his entire body melded along Feuilly’s front, his fingers hooked into his belt loops to better tether them together.  The sudden flutter of Prouvaire’s belly against his could have been anything, but Feuilly knew without asking that he was being laughed at.  Prouvaire’s teeth had joined his eyes in gleaming in the lamplight just before Prouvaire leaned closer still, pressing them into the column of Feuilly’s neck to take a short nip.

[no]

Prouvaire pulled back, then, and Feuilly could do nothing but stare, a field mouse caught in the talons of an owl, knowing that his days are numbered… and that the number is rapidly counting down to zero.  Prouvaire’s lips stretched into a smile.

[…No?]

Feuilly swallowed hard, almost desperate to break the descending silence.  At the third hard swallow, he finally managed to say out loud what his mind had barely whispered moments before.  “No.”  Another hard swallow, “I may be sad, Prouvaire, but this isn’t the answer.”

Prouvaire laughed, low and husky, before leaning in and claiming Feuilly’s lips in a kiss that was alternately bruisingly hard and achingly gentle.  

[This is always the answer, Feuilly.]

Before Feuilly could do more than twitch in response, Prouvaire was gone, off his lap and out of the room, leaving Feuilly feeling a thousand times more alone than before.  Pulling his feet off the ottoman, Feuilly curled in on himself, hands clutched to his racing heart, eyes squeezed tightly shut against sudden tears.  And in that moment of weakness… he wondered.  What would it have been like if he’d had the courage to say yes?

[You look sad, Feuilly.  Shall I kiss it and make it better?]

windfall | combeferre/courfeyrac | t | 2k | canon-era

Combeferre, usually placid if not neatly composed, looks to have walked some miles in the rain, hatless. His hair has lost its wave and all its sandy strands are dripping. “I am saved,” he announces.

“You are soaked through,” Courfeyrac tsks. “Come inside. If you catch your death I shall murder you.”

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eirenical  asked:

For Sleepover Weekend -- headcanons about Bahorel and Courfeyrac as friends? ^_^

:D :D :D 

Courfeyrac didn’t meet Bahorel for his first six months of Law School; he didn’t try, even though he HEARD about him , because he honestly thought “Bahorel”  was a Law School injoke; like, friends would turn up with new outfits and new black eyes and smelling like ?? some kind of incense maybe??  and refusing to talk about it and just going “BAHOREL” if anyone asked and EVERYONE WOULD ACT LIKE THAT MADE SENSE

or someone would need an Official Adult For Official Purposes and go “Yeah I’m just gonna get Bahorel to sign that and not tell my folks” or someone would be hard up for theater tickets to the latest show and be like “only Bahorel has spares but you know how that ends up” and Courfeyrac just ASSUMED it was like some Law School code for ridiculous situations

HE took to doing it when he missed hanging out with friends for Political Reasons or because he was in a Delicate Situation with a Friend  or w/e, just “Don’t ask, it was Bahorel” and everyone would just nod and go on, it was excellent, what a lovely way to signal you don’t want to talk about a thing, good code, guys 



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