enjolras is so affectionate when he’s sleepy?? it’s ridiculous. he either curls up around you and starts playing with your hair and complimenting you or he sends long winded texts/vn about how much he loves his friends. it’s ten times worse if feuilly is around


@mamzellecombeferre i can’t copy past your prompt properly or make this super long because TABLET but as promised. The prompt was : Bossuet, Joly et Feuilly + one frayed unraveling sock, two ribbons and a paintbrush.

To find Bossuet sitting in the middle of Joly’s living-room, two candles lightened in front of him, and one sock laying on the ground next to them, was not as shocking to Feuilly now as it might have been a year back. He had been the witness of many odd things in Joly’s (and Bossuet’s really) rooms, and he generally tried not to ask too many questions. Still – Joly had been whispering since he’d arrived with the pamphlets for tomorrow’s evening, and Bossuet looked so serious, that this time Feuilly’s curiosity got the best of him:

“Is everything alright?” He asked, finding himself whispering too despite not knowing why. “What are you doing?”

“Alas,” said Bossuet gravely. “Here lies my last sock. She was as brave as one could living at my feet, but now i fear her time to keep me warm is over at last. I will mourn her as it is proper, for none was as itchy, full of holes yet faithful to the post as she. She will be missed.”

Feuilly blinked. Joly moved around him, and came to put a hand on Bossuet’s shoulder, his face full of sympathy, despite his lips twitching like they wished to smile. Feuilly hesitated, stared at his friends, then thought about his lonely lodgings, and sat in front of Bossuet.

“Why is there only one?” He asked.

Clearly Bossuet hadn’t expected him to play along, because his serious demeanour threatened to break for a moment, before he coughed and answered with as much feeling as possible:

“The other left a while ago, never to be seen again, during a trip to the washing rooms. And while we must applaud her will for freedom, for it is what we all want and wishes for, i’m afraid this was the last straw for this one. Abandonned by all, she decayed until she came to this state. There is nothing to be done with it now. Even our best, most talented seamstress as declared her done for. As such, we are saying goodbye today before burying it.”

Feuilly looked at the sock. It looked indeed in a very bad state, and it was clear it would never fit anyone’s feet again. Still – to throw things away was against his nature. He thought for a moment, and then he straightened up.

“You sock may very well never be a sock again,” he said. “But i have another future for it if you let me try, Bossuet.”

Bossuet looked surprised but intrigued. He waved at him permission, and both Joly and him leaned closer as Feuilly grbbed the sock, and started to examine it before twisting it experimentally.

“I haven’t done this since i was a little boy,” said Feuilly thoughtfully. “Do you guys have some strings?”

Joly looked around, then he asked: “we have ribbons?” And went to retrieve them when Feuilly nodded decisively.

Once in possession of that, Feuilly went to work, and filled the poor sock with one the ribbons, making sure it didn’t spill out of the sock’s hole. Then, he carefully took the other ribbon and tied it up around the sock, until it looked like the sock had a little round head, and a frayed dress, with some imagination.

“There,” he said, pleased. “Now your sock is a doll, and kids will be happy to play with it. I made my first doll like that. Of course, i got better at carving tree branches after that, but nothing truly remplaces little dolls like that. They’re softer.”

He raised his eyes, satisfied, but then saw the faces of Joly and Bossuet. They had stilled, their eyes sad and a bit shocked, and Feuilly suddenly felt embarassed by his creation. It was as if Feuilly’s poor childhood had suddenly invaded the room with all its pitifulness and ugliness, and awkardness was not long to follow. Feuilly flushed in shame, tried to find something to say, anything, to have them forget what he’d said when Joly suddenly declared thoughfully:

“Do you know, if you squint, the doll looks like Grantaire a bit.”

“It does,” said Bossuet, moving closer. “I don’t know if it is the color or the form, but all it misses is the ugly nose.”

“Feuilly,” said Joly, “you know how to paint, don’t you? R left us one of his paintbrushes yesterday, after giving up again to paint us. We should draw his face, and then offer the doll to him. He is no child, but i can only assume he will be delighted we have thought of him.”

Feuilly breathed out slowly. It was truly Bossuet and Joly’s gift, he thought, that none of their sudden cheerfulness felt forced or full of pity. When he smiled, they beamed, and something uncomfortable disappeared in Feuilly’s stomach.

“Alright,” he said, holding the sock doll carefully in his hand. “Let’s make it for Grantaire.”


Feuilly and Enjolras, one reacting to the other crying about something, please?






(the symbolism of this moment is painfully apparent to both of them )

Thank you!!! 

Yeah that’s… exactly as sad as I thought it would be, and the colours only add to the effect.

I’m glad you…like??..it?  It’s good that the suffering is adequate?!?! oh gad why do I like a history fiction 


So I wasn’t going to do anything this year, and then suddenly this happened. It’s unproofread, so don’t hesitate to alert me to any typos – I’m super rusty at this, so I expect there are many.

Wordcount: 1529

Though Enjolras had ordered sleep, Feuilly was not alone in quietly tending to his affairs. Around him, men sorted through their pockets, refilled pipes, scribbled hasty notes to their loved ones on any scrap of paper they could find. He heard murmurs of conversation as his comrades sat in twos and threes, clasping hands and brushing shoulders. He had never been a soldier, but he somehow knew that this very scene had played out countless times before in countless places across the globe. He felt as though he were part of a never-ending play, as though he had stepped into a role played by countless actors before him, one that would be reprized until the bloody curtain of history at last fell on the human race. The thought offered as much comfort as it did despair – never had he felt himself more part of the world as he did now, squatting crouched behind their barricade, the streets beneath his feet uneven and dripping with blood and with history. He felt as though he could reach out and touch all the others who sat, as he did, awaiting death with open eyes and a steady heart.

“Are you not going to take our general’s words to heart?”

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I’ll end tonight with a positive note:

Picture Feuilly, alive, a few years after whatever went down, happy snd safe and warm in his own house, reading a book that he owns – from his healthy-looking bookcase. He’s probably going to lend the book to one of his friends later, most likely Enjolras or Bahorel. There’s a dog snuggling next to him. It’s Saturday morning and Feuilly’s not working. He’s financially stable and not tired anymore.




  • He really really like soft things. There wasn’t much softness at all in his life until he was a young adult and met a group of people he called him, until he found himself solid and stable enough to allow himself to feel attached to a home.
  • So Feuilly really loves everything that’s soft – soft voices and soft music, carrying him to sleep. Fluffy pillows and warm blankets. Plushy armchairs in his friends’ apartments that he always ends up dozing on. The soft light of the sun through his window in the afternoon when he comes home from work. Soft breeze in his hair when he gets out. Scarves and socks and sweaters. His friends’ soft and gentle hands holding his, patting his back, gentle hugs.
  • He collects old picture frames, bought mostly in garage sales and flea markets. He has quite an eclectic collection, and always puts photos of his friends in them – he likes how varied and different they all are, like his groupe of friends. He keeps a few very special ones for travel photos, when he gets to travel one day.
  • He taught Jehan origami and they have this 1000 paper cranes thing going on – they haven’t decided on a wish, though. Maybe it’s not that important.
  • In return for the origami lessons, Jehan is teaching Feuilly the piano! They haven’t gone very far in their lessons because they’re been tipsy and/or otherwise intoxicated pretty much every time they’ve sat down to practice, but they’ll get there.
  • Still reads aloud to himself a lot. Sometimes does accents when he’s reading fiction. He’s absolutely terrible at it.
  • He totally foster kittens for a local shelter. He’d love to adopt one for real one day, but he doubts his ability to take care of another living being.
  • (he’s totally great at it when he does adopt a cat, though)
  • The other amis throw him a surprise birthday party every year. And every year, he’s so surprised he cries a little. Like he wasn’t expecting it, even though they always do. Aw, baby. 



do you ever think about how feuilly spent his two hours of rest on the barricade carving “vivent les peuples” on the wall because i do and i start crying.



feuilly as a small business owner, taking walks to the local park on his breaks and just watching the people go by, sipping coffee out of a travel mug and letting the world happen around him

feuilly as chief engineer on a starship, surrounded by his friends, constantly fixing and tweaking things to make them bigger, better, more advanced, fixing problems as they hit him, willing to do anything for his crew and his captain

feuilly as a teenager, alone and not sure where to go, but knowing he wants to go to school, get an education, help the kids who ended up like him

feuilly in the musain with his friends, making plans, wanting to make a better france, a better world, surrounded by laughter and love and passion for making the world a better place

feuilly sitting in the library in the middle of the night, trying to get his paper done. it’s his last one of college– he’s so close to being done, to having his degree. he graduates in two weeks, and he’s never felt prouder of himself

I’m on mobile, so I can’t coy and paste, but Courfeyrac and Feuilly for the ‘one reacting to the other crying about something’ one, please? ^_^


so after weeks of procrastinating I FINALLY got past my block of ‘this is my favorite pairing and my favorite trope OMG i have to write the perfect drabble’ and managed to write something for the prompt.  sorry about the delay!

This is sort of a spin-off of Vé @thecoffeetragedy‘s Hogwarts AU where Feuilly is a werewolf (although with the details different, I think–in this he’s only been a werewolf at all for a few months).  I hope you don’t mind me writing about your AU, it’s just a very compelling scenario and I can’t stop thinking about it!

This is also on AO3 if you’d rather read it there.

The sun was already too low in the sky to shine directly through the windows of Ravenclaw tower by the time Feuilly woke up.  Courfeyrac sat up at the first sign of him stirring, his quill and the essay he was supposedly writing falling unnoticed to the floor, and leaned forward eagerly, propping his elbows on his knees.  Feuilly’s eyelids fluttered, but it was a few more minutes before his woke up properly, blinking at his surroundings like he wasn’t quite sure where he was.

“Ravenclaw dormitory,” Courfeyrac supplied.  “You’re safe at Hogwarts, nobody found out, and it’s almost dinnertime on the first day after the full moon.”

Feuilly’s eyes fell closed and he slowly let his breath out.  Courfeyrac squeezed his hand and saw a little more of the tension slide off of his face.

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What about Feuilly taking his two free afternoons every week to spend a couple of hours in the vacant lot around the corner from his apartment–digging up the ground and picking up cans and broken class and potato chip bags–and putting a little garden in there? The squash he plants are a disappointment–two hills don’t come up at all and something eats the third before it produces flowers, but he does get a few marigolds coming up along one side. and even though every time he comes out [1/2]


[2/2] to work on it, somebody has thrown new trash there, he still likes being able to do some concrete work to make his neighborhood a little better. (Combeferre gives him some bulbs to plant there and Feuilly thinks they’re pretty but doesn’t realize until a year later that bulb flowers are perennial–and then he almost starts to cry when he realizes he’s left a mark in his neighborhood. People will see and enjoy those daffodils year after year, even long after Feuilly himself is gone.)

oh no…. just the though of him putting so much care in that little bit of land and making it look nice and grow things and nurture it until the land itself gives back to the citizen with flowers and vegetable and fruit (I bet he tries to tomatoes, too, because those are easy, and after some years (and a lot of encouragement) he manages to get it to form a community garden that the whole neighbourhood can participate in!