eirenical fic

eirenical  asked:

Courfeyrac x Marius; 17 or 18? ^_^

17. Shy kiss / 18. Surprised kiss

This was actually a thing I jotted notes down for, like, two years ago. Also a roundabout response to @badassindistress​ asking for Courfeyrac unleashing his inner dandy on Marius. This meets precisely none of the three prompts, but they made me think of it again and actually write it. So I’m counting that a win.

“My dear, what has you so out of sorts?”

Marius paused in the act of taking off his coat and stared fixedly at the wall where Courfeyrac wasn’t. “Nothing of importance,” he muttered.

Courfeyrac gave his favorite skeptically quizzical glance, confident in its power even with such a recalcitrant and backwards-facing object. A few moments of skeptically quizzical silence bore his thesis out.

Marius fidgeted uncomfortably for a bit, then threw up his hands, still in apparent rapt fascination with the coat rack. “Very well, if you’re going to be so insistent about it! There is a gaggle of chattering schoolgirls outside your door, and as I passed by I saw one point at me then turn to her friends to whisper and laugh. It should not bother me, I know, and did not the first time it happened. But when young mothers hide their faces behind fans as I pass by, or laundresses stare and smile, and such things happen daily, I cannot help but be sensible to the insult! I cannot help it that my coat is old or my shoes worn. Simple black may not be the fashion, but I do not wear it without cause! I do not seek the approval of strangers, but it is wearing to so openly receive their disdain!’”

Courfeyrac couldn’t help himself; Marius had worked himself up into a true passion, and Courfeyrac struggled in vain to hold back the peals of (admittedly ungentlemanly) laughter bubbling out of him. That, at last, left Marius no choice but to turn and glare at him.

“My dear fellow, I hate to be the bearer of such dire news, but I’m afraid you’ve quite mistaken the situation,” said Courfeyrac, once he had caught his breath. “The trouble is simply that you’re too handsome! The ladies of town do not lower their eyes in disdain, but to hide admiring blushes. Your schoolgirls are not whispering about the age of your coat, but rather the masculine beauty of your profile.” Marius stared at him in open disbelief, and Courfeyrac laughed again.

“Lower your skeptical brows, Adonis! You have been trained as a scholar; let us take scholarly inventory. Your forehead is high and broad, as in fashion.” He tapped a finger lightly in the center of Marius forehead, and then moved it down to the tip of his nose. “A clean line; pure without being severe. Just what a sculptor would wish for his creation.” The finger traced a semicircle around Marius right eye. “A deep brown, warm and cool by turns. Forbidding then inviting – how could any woman resist that mystery?” Down to his cheekbones: “An excellent frame, pronounced without harshness, rosy but not reddened. A maiden’s color with a manly shape. And here–” Courfeyrac’s finger dipped down to Marius’ lower lip and brushed across it, slowly, back and forth as he spoke “–here is the pièce de résistance. A perfect crimson, full and lush, brushed with nature’s own cosmetics. A mouth that would make any lady from humble grisette to society matron fall at your feet and beg to be kissed.”

Marius breaths were coming shallow and quick, his eyes fixed on Courfeyrac as if he couldn’t look away. “If that’s the case,” he asked, breathless yet still a touch petulant, “why haven’t you kissed me? Why, in point of fact, aren’t you kissing me right now?”

Damned if I know,” said Courfeyrac, with sincere feeling. He felt quite on the verge of falling at Marius’ feet and begging to be kissed himself. The weight of Marius’ gaze was hypnotic, and Courfeyrac leaned in closer without consciously intending to. “Marius, I –“

Marius saved Courfeyrac the task of finishing that statement by tackling him with a kiss.

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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takethewatch  asked:

can i ask for Feuilly and Enjolras and #14? or #15. Whichever one inspires you. :)

OK, @takethewatch, I’ll be the first to confess that I’m not entirely sure what this is… but I kind of almost want to write more of it to find out.  I hope you like it!

There was a loud clatter on the path behind him and Enjolras froze, senses alert, not daring to turn.  Moments later there was another loud clatter, this time accompanied by a spate of quiet, vicious cursing.  His heart clenched.  This wasn’t the first time this had happened on the journey.  It wasn’t even the first time it had happened today.  Still…

Enjolras waited.

It was another five minutes before the cursing coming from behind him finally ebbed, but the ensuing silence was a thousand times worse.  *Come on… come on…*

It was another five minutes beyond that before a soft voice finally said, “OK.  OK.  I’m a stubborn ass and I’m sorry.  I promise I won’t bite your head off this time.”  There was a pause, then the voice came again, somehow brittle and even more fragile than before.  “Help?”

Enjolras turned and walked back up the path he’d just come down.  Deep in the forest and made up more of roots and twisting vines than solid ground, it was treacherous going, but familiar to Enjolras, at least.  He’d been traveling these paths since he’d been a babe in his mother’s arms.  Not so for Feuilly.  It had been desperation that made Enjolras even bring him here to begin with—desperate hope.  Hope that the Mother Wood could help his friend where he could not.  But now… the difficulty Feuilly was having even walking these paths did not bode well for his chances of finding help and respite here.  Still, Enjolras had to try.

He had nowhere else to go.

Enjolras found Feuilly thirty paces back up the path, hands white-knuckled around the staff he was leaning on, muscles locked rigid as though afraid to take even one more step.  The bandage around his eyes had slipped, probably during his most recent stumble, revealing the angry red and black lines of creeping corruption their enemy’s spell had left behind.  His breath was coming fast and shallow.  Enjolras stepped in close, draping himself over Feuilly’s back, burying his face in the crook of Feuilly’s neck.  Feuilly took in a deep, shuddering breath, then slowly relaxed, letting his head fall back to rest on Enjolras’ shoulder.  He said again, “I’m sorry.”

Enjolras made a small noise of protest as he wrapped his arms tight around Feuilly’s midsection.  “No.  It is I who am sorry, my friend.  It’s my fault you were even there to begin with.  You’d never have been hurt if you hadn’t leapt to my defense.”

Feuilly shook his head.  “I’d do it again in a heartbeat, and you know it.  You’re too important.  We can’t lose you.”  He took a deep breath, finished softly with, “*I* can’t lose you.”

“But what if the Mother Wood can’t—”

“Don’t.”  The word was harsh, guttural, a hint of a growl teasing in its depths.  Enjolras’ mouth snapped shut so hard over the rest of that sentence he almost bit his tongue.  Feuilly sighed.  “I would still do it over again.  That spell would have killed you.  It was designed to kill you.  I may be—”  Feuilly cut off the word, as though to utter it here would be to cement the possibility.  “—but it won’t kill me.  I’ll live.  I’ll adjust.  That’s better than the alternative by far.”

Enjolras stood there, wrapped around Feuilly like a second skin, until Feuilly started to fidget.  He then stepped back.  Lightly touching Feuilly’s arm, he said, “Come.  Hold my hand.  You’re going to be fine.  It’s just a little further, now.”  And as he and Feuilly began making their slow, deliberate way through the trees, Enjolras allowed his essence to grow, spreading out under the land as they moved.  And with the pulse of his anger and determination rippling out under every speck of dust, the rest of the way was unsurprisingly clear.

*That’s right, Mother.  If you would take him from me… you’ll have to try much, much harder than that.*

drverstehen1  asked:

15. “You need to eat something” / Star Wars (anyone or anything that doesn't involve Qui-Gon Jinn)

YES.  I’m always up for a bit of SW angst!  ^_^  Thanks, @drverstehen1​!  Set during the Clone Wars, Obi-Wan has a little difficulty dealing with the aftermath of his capture, torture, and near death on Rattatak.  Cody does what he can.  ^_^

“You need to eat something.”

A dismissive wave of the hand was the only response Cody got to that statement.  He tried again.  “Even Jedi cannot go forever without food under such conditions of physical duress.  You need to eat something.”

“Later.”  Clipped, cold, equally as dismissive as that earlier handwave.

This time Cody stepped forward, deliberately placing himself between his General and the maps he was intent upon studying.  “That’s what you said yesterday.”  When the General opened his mouth to, no doubt, push aside his concerns yet again, he added, “And the day before.”  Cody frowned.  “Even you can’t go on like this, indefinitely, General.  You’ll collapse and then where will we be?”

Cody stood, watching, waiting for the break.  His General had been pushing himself harder than any of them for days, weeks, months.  Since Jabiim.  Since Rattatak.  Cody knew the pattern all too well.  If you kept your head down, kept fighting, kept moving, it was easier to ignore the horror.  It was easier to pretend the damage done to you wasn’t permanent, that you hadn’t been ruined for anything beyond the war.  That you might never again be whole.

And how much worst must it be for the Jedi, especially those like his General who felt every other death and injury in this war as keenly as if they had lived it themselves?  It might make for better Generals, but it was awfully hard on those Generals, all the same.  How much more could his General take before one more death was one death too many?

Even as focused as he was, when the General’s answer came it was in such hushed tones that Cody almost missed it… and it came closer to answering the question that Cody had not asked than the one he had.

“I will do what I must, Commander.  Just as anyone else would do.”

And, Cody could hear it in his voice—as far as General Kenobi was concerned, that was the end of the matter.  He would do what he must, endure what he must, survive what he must, regardless of the cost to himself, and he would not thank Cody for the reminder that he asked far more of himself than anyone had any right to ask.  

So, Cody wouldn’t remind him.  Instead, he pulled a ration bar out of his pocket and held it up.  “One bite, and I’ll back off for the rest of the evening.  Just one.”

The General froze, jaw clenched, throat working against a hard swallow.  They stood there like that, letting the seconds tick by long enough that Cody began to sweat, but eventually the General nodded and held out his hand for the ration bar.  Cody was kind enough to turn away once he took it, but kept his ears tuned for the rustling of the wrapper.  By the time he turned back, the ration bar was on the table beside the maps with precisely one bite taken out of it.  General Kenobi was gone, as well.  Cody sighed.  Since Rattatak there had been too many times when it had been nigh impossible to get the man to eat enough to keep a bird alive.  How he was still on his feet was beyond Cody.  Jedi fuckery at its finest.  Well, that was just fine.  The General was a stubborn son of a bitch.

So was his Commander.

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.


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.


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?]

eirenical  asked:

For the kiss meme -- Courfeyrac x Marius, 11 or 24? ^_^

11. “I almost lost you” kiss / 24. Returned from the dead kiss 

…sorry in advance.

Marius stumbles away from the thick of the fighting, trying to find a piece of cloth clean enough to wipe the blood from his face. He’s woozy, disoriented from explosive sounds and pain, and he puts out a hand to try to steady himself against a building.

He misses, stumbles forward, and feels his hand hit something softer and warmer than a wall. He looks up and sees-


Courfeyrac’s mouth moves, but Marius can’t make out the words. Marius shakes his head. Courfeyrac looks at Marius with concern, then tears a long strip of fabric off of his coat. He ties it right above Marius’s eyes, stopping the flow of blood that had been half-blinding him.

Courfeyrac loves that old coat. Marius will have to mend it for him. Tomorrow.

For one short, sharp moment he doesn’t want to die, can imagine a world with spots of color and light even without Cosette. If I die, who will take care of Courfeyrac? he wonders, before remembering that Courfeyrac will doubtless die here with him.

That reality hit him with a new weight, and everything goes dark for a moment. He staggers and Courfeyrac catches him.

“Marius!” Courfeyrac has to shout to be heard over the sound of gunfire and cries from the battle. He holds Marius tighter and longer than he needs to. Marius grabs hold of him in return.

“Don’t die,” he tells Courfeyrac, suddenly, fiercely. “I don’t want you to die.”

“You’ve stolen my very lines,“ says Courfeyrac, attempting his accustomed smile. The melancholy of the hour shows through, but he’s Marius’ Courfeyrac all the same, even with his sparkle dimmed. “My dear friend, I would wish you anywhere but here, yet I confess I’m more glad than anything to see you.” He squeezes Marius tightly.

Marius rests his head against Courfeyrac’s forehead and breathes deeply, taking in Courfeyrac’s real and solid presence one last time. Will he ever be able to find Courfeyrac again, or hold him like this? “Don’t leave me,” he whispers. Even this close, he isn’t sure Courfeyrac will hear him.

On impulse, he grabs Courfeyrac’s shirt and pulls him across the last few inches remaining between them. He crushes their mouths together, banishing any distance and kissing Courfeyrac as if their lives depended on it. He wishes they did.

“Don’t leave me,” he says again, louder, once the kiss is over and he’s regained some of his breath.

“Not in this world or any other,” says Courfeyrac, impossibly gentle.

eirenical  asked:

Courfeyrac and M for the letter meme? ^_^

M. When it rains/snows/storms. 

Marius feels a thrill of apprehension as he hears a knocking at his door over the howling of the wind. It isn’t a storm yet, not truly, but neither is it a night to be about without business. And what business would anyone have with him? Not a visitor then – perhaps a neighbor? That thought does little to quiet Marius’ concerns, given what little he’s seen of them.

But when he opens his door, he finds the ever-smiling face of Courfeyrac, soaked through and holding out a coat and umbrella – both miraculously no more than damp.

“Ah, I am delighted to find you at home!” declares Courfeyrac. “I doubt I’ll be back this way today if I can help it. I was passing through on my way to visit some associates and wished to pay my respects.”

“Some…associates,” says Marius, doubtfully.

Courfeyrac waves a hand in dismissal of the implied question, sending drops of rain flying. “I must introduce you soon – but never mind that. I have discovered that this coat is the wrong color for me, and the cut unflattering. But it would favor you – your build is more classical than mine and your coloring a match for darker shades. Won’t you take it and spare me the trouble of throwing it away?”

“I don’t want charity,” says Marius firmly. He may be cold, and his old coat nearly as full of holes as his rooms are, but he stands on that. He catches himself looking longingly at the proffered coat and umbrella and makes himself look Courfeyrac in the face instead.

“Don’t call it charity,” says Courfeyrac mildly, “it’s no more than a small favor to me if you take it. I do hate to waste such nice fabric. And if you want to make the favor double, you may aid me by taking this umbrella before my friends see it. They will tease me mercilessly.“

Marius isn’t sure he believes him, but he takes the coat and umbrella anyway, already feeling a little warmer for reasons he can’t explain.