Bahorel and Prouvaire for the ship meme?:D (canon era?)

Canon era, huh?  Oh gosh.  I never feel quite smart enough to talk about them in canon era, because I feel like there are so many Romantic things that I don’t know about?  BUT I WILL GIVE IT A GO.  ^_^

  • How do much do I ship it?: Never heard of it/ Notp / Dislike / used to ship / maybe / ship it / aww / otp / IS IT CANON YET?
  • What non sexual activities do they like to do together?

I imagine they see a lot of theatre.  And visit all the best salons in Paris – not necessarily the most fashionable, but the ones with the best wine, the best company, and the crowd most likely to explode into poetry or revolutionary fervor (and depending on the mind-altering substance of the night, that could really go either way).

  • Who does chores around the house?

Bahorel.  Prouvaire has a bit of trouble pulling his head out of the ether and into practical pursuits.  ^_^

  • Who’s the better cook?

…neither.  Fortunately, Bahorel knows all the best places to go in Paris including all the best places to get yourself fed without risking poisoning yourself or burning your rooms down.  (…don’t ask.  Really.  The curtains haven’t smelled the same since.  O_o;;;)

  • Who’s the funniest drunk?

Probably Prouvaire, but not because he’s actually funny.  Prouvaire normally is a bit maudlin and leans heavily towards the Romantic, but Prouvaire drunk is… maudlin about the most innocuous things; things that are decidedly UN-Romantic.  For example, he’ll wax poetic for hours about dandelion fluff and how it resembles a kitten’s tail, and treat the topic with the seriousness devoted to talk of death.  Bahorel finds it adorable and refuses to let anyone tease him for it.

  • Do they have kids?

Well… if we’re in CANON…  TT^TT


Then, YES.  They absolutely have kids.  And grandkids.  And great-grandkids.  They adopt so many orphans and Bahorel, especially, never seems to have fewer than two hanging off him at any given time.  Their home is warm and cozy and filled with light and laughter… and skulls.  And other very bizarre things that it’s really best not to ask Papa Prouvaire about.  Ever.  …because he WILL answer you.  And you probably don’t want to know.  O_o;;;

  • Do they have any traditions?

Prouvaire’s birthday celebration is always held in a graveyard.  He once idly commented that he feels closest to life when among the dead and Bahorel brought him there for a picnic on his birthday one year and the tradition stuck.

  • What do they fight about?

Mostly inconsequential things, like what color curtains to purchase and what to eat for dinner.  When it comes to the big things they tend to be pretty well in sync.  But they both have hot tempers and will explode at a moment’s notice when it’s called for – though Prouvaire has a much longer fuse and it takes longer to set him off.  They both cool off as quickly as they explode, though, so they’ve usually cleared the air within an hour of whatever started the fight to begin with.

  • What would they do if they found their paring tag on tumblr? (If they have one)

Oh gosh.  Assuming such a thing were possible in 19th century France, they would have a BLAST.  They’d make a secret ship blog and contribute SO MANY HEADCANONS AND SO MUCH FIC AND PHOTOSETS AND EVERYTHING THEY COULD.  They’d think it was hilarious.  XD

  • Who cried at the end of Marley and me?

Oh, really.  Like that’s even a question?  Both of them.

  • Who always wins at Mario kart?

Generally speaking, Bahorel, because Prouvaire just isn’t that competitive normally? But every now and then, Prouvaire gets this light in his eye and it is ON.  And when that happens?  Pfft.  Bahorel doesn’t stand a chance!  ;D

  • One thing I like about this ship?

I like how on the surface they’re polar opposites, but at the core they have so much in common.  I love how those opposites make them such a good and supportive pairing.  I think they’d take very good care of each other and deal really well with each other’s eccentricities.  ^_^

  • One thing I don’t like about the ship?


  • The song I would say fits them?

…oh I’m terrible at those kinds of questions.  I honestly have no idea.  O_o;;;

  • Another headcanon about the paring? (Free space)

Since I still have that whole prompt of headcanon to write for you, I’m going to wait on this one (also I have to run if I’m going to make it to yoga on time.)  So, to be continued…?  ^_^


Hello! For the meme please ♡: Accidentally falling asleep together with Jehan and Feuilly

This somehow ended up from Enjolras’ POV, but all the snuggling is between Feuilly and Jehan, so hopefully that’s OK.  ^_^  Thanks for your patience!  ^_^

Running a club focused on bringing about the betterment of society was often a thankless job made up of a multitude of smaller thankless jobs, and this was a fact of which Enjolras was well aware.  He’d started the Alpha-Beta-Kappa Society with two like-minded and willing individuals almost five years ago, now, and it was thriving, its membership growing robust and numerous compared to its small start.  He, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac had stayed involved, even once they’d moved on to graduate school, happy to keep a hand in whenever they were asked.  There were, however, certain benefits to having achieved emeritus status from the board; it meant that the truly thankless and mind-numbing tasks could fall to younger hands.  Collating and stuffing orientation packets, for example, had been the particular bane of Enjolras’ existence in the beginning.  He didn’t have patience for it and he never finished the process with fewer than three paper cuts.  So, when two of the new freshmen had volunteered to take up the task, Enjolras had been more than happy to pass it over.

Looking down on the two new recruits, now, Enjolras couldn’t help but smile.  Jehan had tipped over sideways, one foot dangling towards the floor, the other kicked up to rest on the bench.  One arm was thrown over his head, the other trailing along the floor, his last batch of papers spilling from lax fingers.  Jehan’s head was burrowed behind his partner in collation, pressed between Feuilly’s back and the back of the bench.  Feuilly was equally unresponsive, though he was less sprawled in his repose.  Arms crossed over his chest, his cap pulled down over his face, and his feet crossed at the ankles, he was the most contained accidental napper that Enjolras had ever seen.

Enjolras reached out to gather the papers from Jehan’s hand, as well as the few which had fallen from the piles on the tables.  Even that small noise, however, was enough to wake Feuilly.  His hand rose to rub at slowly blinking eyes, a soft whine emerging from his lips in protest at his awakening.  The noise and the jostling woke Jehan behind him, nearly resulting in this both ending up on the floor as sleep-deadened limbs fought with startled senses to attempt movement far too soon.

Moments later, two pairs of red-rimmed eyes turned to face Enjolras, each with an accusation in one sleepy eye and mounting horror and embarrassment in the other.  Before either could speak, Enjolras shook his head and smiled.  “You two look about done in.”  Nodding towards the other side of the room, he said, “That couch has seen to the needs of more than a few willing minds with unwilling bodies.  I promise you, it’s been well broken-in for comfort and can easily accommodate two—three if you’re willing to be overly friendly.  Why don’t you two get some rest while I finish up, then I’ll drive you both home.”

It didn’t take much convincing to get Feuilly and Jehan relocated to the couch, and Enjolras was almost positive that at least one of them was asleep before their bodies hit the pillows.  They settled into a tangle of limbs that Enjolras well recognized, having spent his fair share of time tangled on that couch with either Courfeyrac or Combeferre—and sometimes Courfeyrac *and* Combeferre—and he smiled to see it.

Forty-five minutes of mind-numbing collating later, Enjolras finally stuffed the last of the packets and put it atop the pile.  He turned back towards the couch with every intention of waking Feuilly and Jehan and getting them home… but froze, unable to make a single move that might disturb the tableau.  Jehan had ended up on the outside edge, facing the back of the couch with Feuilly tucked into the curve of his body.  Their legs had tangled together and both looked comfortable and content.  Enjolras was loathe to move either of them… so he didn’t.

Enjolras went into the closet and retrieved the afghan that Bahorel had made for literally this exact reason—during his last year of undergraduate school, Enjolras had slept on this couch more often than he’d slept in his own bed—and draped it over Feuilly and Jehan.  And then it was all he could do not to actually squeak when they responded by snuggling further into it and each other.  He could almost hear Courfeyrac’s voice in his ear, filled with fond exasperation, calling him the world’s biggest sap.  Maybe he was.  And where was the harm in that, anyway?

Turning off the overhead lights, Enjolras settled in at his desk and powered up his computer.  He’d just stick around and get a little work done while Feuilly and Jehan rested.  After all, what would be the point of being an emeritus member if you couldn’t look after and help out those who were stepping in to fill your shoes?  No point at all.

Hi! Could I request Enjolras and Courfeyrac, ♟: Patching up a wound? :)

Why, nonny, of course you may!  😀  H/C is my bread and butter!  ^_^

If anyone else would like to send prompts, feel free!  ^_^

(You’ll have to forgive me, though, nonny–I have barricades and social unrest on the brain after this weekend.  ^_~)

Enjolras gripped hard at the hand held tightly in his, putting on another burst of speed.  What should have been a simple trade—a sheaf of proscribed pamphlets for a box of even more proscribed ammunition—had turned into anything but.  Whether they had been spotted, or had been betrayed by a spy in their midst hardly mattered; the result was the same.  The police had arrived, ready to arrest everyone involved.  Enjolras and Courfeyrac had acted to provide a distraction, allowing the others time to scatter.  They’d led the police on a merry chase—down dark alleyways, up a sewage pipe, across a rooftop, and back again—and had only just lost them, when Enjolras saw Courfeyrac falter.  Even in the flickering lamplight, Courfeyrac’s complexion was ashen, his eyes beginning to glaze with pain.  He’d been wounded; he wouldn’t be able to run much longer.  They had to get to safety.

Enjolras eased them further back into the alley, pressing Courfeyrac into the depths of a doorway that was just out of sight.  Ignoring the softly hissed protests—“I’m perfectly fine, my friend; no need to stop on my account!”—Enjolras took a few precious moments for a brusque exam that would have had Joly and Combeferre cringing at his manner.  Courfeyrac thought no more of it than they would have if his indrawn breath and low, creative cursing was any indication.

The difficulty became clear rather quickly.  Courfeyrac’s hand was clutched to his side, his coat rapidly acquiring a deepening red stain just below.  Enjolras winced.  “How bad is it?”  As Courfeyrac’s gaze lowered, darting away from his, Enjolras grabbed his shoulders and gave him a brief shake.  “And don’t think of lying to me, either.  How bad?”

Courfeyrac sighed, shook his head.  “Not as bad as it appears.  It happened as we went over the fence.  One of the pikes had aspirations of being a spear and tore a rather impressive hole in my new coat—the nerve.  It did rather more damage to my coat than it did to me, I think—and do you have any idea what this coat cost me, Enjolras?—but I don’t mind admitting that it doesn’t feel exactly pleasant.”

Enjolras let the flood of words wash over him, more relieved than he could say that Courfeyrac was feeling well enough to be indignant over his coat.  Untying his own cravat to Courfeyrac’s accompanying gasp of dismay and a fresh diatribe over the unseemly behavior, Enjolras pulled Courfeyrac’s hand from the wound and opened his coat to get a better look.  Satisfied that the wound, though bleeding, was relatively superficial, Enjolras pressed his cravat to it.  Though Courfeyrac flinched at the pressure, he replaced Enjolras’ hands with his own readily enough when Enjolras let go to untie Courfeyrac’s cravat, as well.  Another lecture accompanied that action, but minor though the wound was, Courfeyrac had to be feeling its effects, as he made no move to stop him.  Courfeyrac’s cravat ended its fashion life as a bandage to hold the other in place.  With that done, and Courfeyrac in less danger of blood loss, Enjolras stepped back to admire his handiwork.  It wasn’t pretty, nor was it neat, but it would do.

When next they left the wall, it was with Courfeyrac’s arm slung over Enjolras’ shoulders and Enjolras’ arm wrapped firmly around Courfeyrac’s waist, applying added pressure to the wound.  It was slower going now, but for the first time that night, luck was on their side.  They ran into no more patrols on the way to the apartment that Joly occasionally shared with Bossuet, the only casualties of the night being a pair of cravats, a coat, and assorted other garments.  There might come a time when Enjolras would lose his friend in truth, but it was not to be tonight, nor any other night, as long as Enjolras had any say in the matter.

For the nonsexual intimacy meme: Jehan and Grantaire ♥:Reacting to the other one crying about something :)


Oops.  Sorry, @kingesstropolis​, this ran away with me a little.  ;D

If anyone else wants to send prompts, feel free!

Jehan paused in the hallway, poised to open the door to his room.  That noise…  Turning away from his own door, he edged down the hall towards Grantaire’s.  As he edged closer, the sound of someone softly sobbing became unmistakable.  He hesitated, torn between the need to help and the need to leave Grantaire his privacy, but in the end, he knocked quietly on the door.

The sounds of crying immediately ceased.

Not to be put off by Grantaire playing turtle, Jehan knocked again.  “R… I know you’re in there.  I can hear you.  Is everything all right?”

A creak of bedsprings then, and a quickly muffled curse.  Jehan waited, heart in his throat, for Grantaire’s answer.  Grantaire’s voice, when it finally came, was thick with those tears that had stopped so precipitously upon Jehan’s knock.  “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fi—“

A rise in pitch now, a hint of frantic desperation around the edges.  “Really, Jehan, I’m fine.  Just… it’s nothing, OK?”

Not one to be deterred, especially when he hadn’t been asked to leave, Jehan squared his shoulders.  “I’m coming in, R.  If you don’t want me there, now’s the time to get up and lock the door.”  When a count of twenty had passed with no sounds of movement from inside Grantaire’s room, Jehan slowly pushed open the door.  The sight that met his eyes was… not the one which had been expected.

Keep reading

For the nonsexual intimacy meme: Jehan and Grantaire ♥:Reacting to the other one crying about something :)

Oops.  Sorry, @kingesstropolis​, this ran away with me a little.  ;D

If anyone else wants to send prompts, feel free!

Jehan paused in the hallway, poised to open the door to his room.  That noise…  Turning away from his own door, he edged down the hall towards Grantaire’s.  As he edged closer, the sound of someone softly sobbing became unmistakable.  He hesitated, torn between the need to help and the need to leave Grantaire his privacy, but in the end, he knocked quietly on the door.

The sounds of crying immediately ceased.

Not to be put off by Grantaire playing turtle, Jehan knocked again.  “R… I know you’re in there.  I can hear you.  Is everything all right?”

A creak of bedsprings then, and a quickly muffled curse.  Jehan waited, heart in his throat, for Grantaire’s answer.  Grantaire’s voice, when it finally came, was thick with those tears that had stopped so precipitously upon Jehan’s knock.  “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fi—“

A rise in pitch now, a hint of frantic desperation around the edges.  “Really, Jehan, I’m fine.  Just… it’s nothing, OK?”

Not one to be deterred, especially when he hadn’t been asked to leave, Jehan squared his shoulders.  “I’m coming in, R.  If you don’t want me there, now’s the time to get up and lock the door.”  When a count of twenty had passed with no sounds of movement from inside Grantaire’s room, Jehan slowly pushed open the door.  The sight that met his eyes was… not the one which had been expected.

Grantaire was curled up in the corner of his bed, the stuffed manatee that had been a gift from Jehan clutched to his chest, and the light from his laptop monitor throwing the tears tracks on his cheeks into glistening relief.  Jehan edged closer, easing around to see what Grantaire had seen that had made him so upset.

The computer was paused on a Youtube video, “Homeward Bound : The Incredible Journey (partial ending).”  In the frame was an American Bulldog, hunched over and peering through broken wooden slats at the top of a muddy embankment.  Jehan jerked back, then reached out to cuff Grantaire on the back of the head.  “R!  You know better!”

Grantaire cringed, arms already lifted to cover his head.  “I know, I know!  I’m sorry.  I was watching kitten videos and I got sucked into a Youtube spiral and, the next thing I knew, I was here!  I swear, I didn’t leave you out on purpose!”

Jehan crossed his arms over his chest, a tight scowl on his face as he stared down at Grantaire’s cringing form.  Finally, he shook his head and said, “Fine.  If we’re going to do this, then we’re going to do it right.  I’ll go get the DVD and you make the popcorn.”

An hour later when Feuilly returned home, it was to find both of his roommates curled up on the living room couch, clutching their favorite stuffed animals, and sobbing like they were at the funeral of a beloved friend.  He didn’t even have to look to know what would be playing on the TV.  With a fond smile and a roll of his eyes, he simply climbed over the back of the couch and settled in between them, resigned to the wet shirt he would end up with when Jehan and Grantaire got done with him.  After all… what were friends for?

1, for Mute?

I GET TO BABBLE ABOUT MUET???  😀  YESSSSSSSS.  I’M SO GLAD YOU ASKED THIS QUESTION FOR THIS STORY, BECAUSE I ACTUALLY HAVE AN ANSWER FOR IT.  *_*  (Seriously, I actually have given this a lot of thought, off and on, over writing this story.  ^_^)

(If anyone else would like to send me questions, here they are! ^_^)

(And if anyone would like to read the story, I’ll link to the chapter one tumblr post, because all the warning are there and I AM NOT FUCKING AROUND, this story is not for everyone – those warning are there for a reason.  So.  Consider yourself warned.  ^_~)

1:What inspired you to write the fic this way?

OK, so since @takethewatch and I were just talking about fic archaeology earlier, to answer this question the first thing you need to know about this story is how it started.  And that question actually has two answers.  The first lies here@luchia13 and I had done this little writing exercise to kind of get each other writing again.  We had someone volunteer a trope, then we were going to write 1500 words each on that trope, swap, and finish each other’s stories.  Only we both fell enough in love with our own stories that we just kind of kept them.

The trope was fake boyfriends.


Anyway, the second answer to how this fic started was that I had had a really, REALLY fucked up fic dream a few weeks prior to that.  And it was basically about the dystopian society described in Muet… and what happens to Courfeyrac at the hands of Montparnasse.  And as is usually the case with dreams like that, I didn’t expect it EVER to see the light of day as an actual written fic.  But when we took off on this little writerly challenge… that fucking story just wouldn’t take a hint.  It wanted to get written and it was NOT letting me off the hook.  And since, for the first time in a long time, my writing wasn’t fighting me, I didn’t even question it.  I just said “fuck it” and let it happen.  Because when a fic is fighting that hard to get out of my brain and onto paper… it’s usually because some part of me really, really needs it to.

So, in short, this story came from a really, REALLY dark place in my psyche, a large part of which was prompted by too many people jumping on top of me and trying to get me to do things “for my own good” whether I wanted to or not.  And most often the answer was “not” but I’d feel obligated to do the thing anyway because they meant well and I loved them, right?  And that thinking was just shoving me ever deeper into this spiral of bad feelings and shame and guilt and just–  I needed to work that shit out somehow.  So I took it to an extreme and dumped it on Courfeyrac so I could work it out through him. And the story evolved from there.

And given the amount of worldbuilding that went into this story and how dark and dystopian it really was, the picture of it in my head was very film noir.  And that dark, foreboding, closed in feel is very present in my head whenever I think about the story and that seems to translate onto paper when I write for it.  ^_^

(Also tagging @kingesstropolis in this because it is relevant to your interests, I believe.  ^_~)

instead of a specific fic I want to ask about a fic series–the aro!courf/feuilly one. Can you do questions 3, 5, and 10 for that series?

So, I ended up rereading the first two stories and part of the third in this series, so that took a little longer than I was expecting.  Sorry!  ;D

Answers behind the cut because of length and possible spoilers:

(And if anyone else would like to send me questions, here they are! ^_^)

3: What’s your favorite line of narration?


Right at the top of A Dream Deferred is this little bit.  I honestly just felt like I’d done a good job of showing instead of telling here and that’s something I’d been finding hard to figure out how to do at the time.

Of course, that wasn’t answer enough. This thing between them was still so new, and they were both feeling their way through it, trying to figure out where the boundaries were. So, there was no pressure in Courfeyrac’s voice, but there was concern. It was the same concern Feuilly heard there when Combeferre came to ABC meetings with bloodshot eyes, running on caffeine, sheer cussedness, and precious little else. It was the same concern Feuilly heard there when Enjolras slammed into the Corinthe, ordered a bottle of wine and slumped into a corner to drink his way through his latest disappointment in a world that just couldn’t seem to care.

It wasn’t that Courfeyrac didn’t show concern for everyone in their group. He did. But his concern for Enjolras and Combeferre was… different. It was special. And as much as Feuilly hated knowing that he’d worried Courfeyrac, there was a small part of him that was leaping about like a small boy at Christmas, thrilled that Courfeyrac now showed that same level of concern for him. It meant something. It was a milestone. Feuilly couldn’t return that concern with cold silence.

And especially liked that bit because of how how I got it to echo down into the resolution of their quasi-relationship at the end, because I really enjoy that kind of symmetry from the beginning to the end of a fic.  ^_^

Courfeyrac’s hands tightened almost convulsively on Feuilly’s then, and he ducked his eyes… but not before Feuilly caught the telltale signs of tears. When he recovered himself enough to look back up, Courfeyrac asked, voice rough with those unshed tears, “Are you sure? I can’t… Feuilly I don’t think I have it in me to be a boyfriend. I’ve been trying. I really have, but… it’s just not there. And I do care about you. A lot. The same way I do about Combeferre and Enjolras. But… is that really enough? To know that I love all three of you the same way?” When Feuilly moved to answer, Courfeyrac shook his head. “Don’t… don’t answer right away, OK? I need you to think about this. Really think about it. Because it would destroy me to know that you might miss out on someone who could really make you happy just because you felt obligated to keep a promise to me.”

Feuilly stood up from his chair and pulled Courfeyrac to his feet and straight into a tight hug, smoothing a hand down his back when he started to tremble. “Courfeyrac… did you think I didn’t know that? I’ve watched you with the two of them for years. I know how much they mean to you. I know how much you mean to them. Do you have any idea how long I’ve wished that someone felt that strongly about me? Do you have any idea how honored I’d be for you to list me among their company in your heart? Because I would be.”

From when Feuilly and Courfeyrac are looking at the photo album and Courfeyrac asks about Darnell.  Another spot where I thought I’d done a good job of showing instead of telling – the burgeoning feeling of hope for something better that Darnell had brought back into Feuilly’s life.  ^_^

Feuilly rested his head on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, allowing himself the luxury of staring at that bright smile, the way one long arm draped around a younger, baby-faced Feuilly’s shoulders… at how lurking around the edges of that sullen baby face, there was the barest hint of a smile.

And then this last paragraph from I Shall Give You Wings because EVERYONE IS HAPPY AND I LIKE THAT EVERYONE IS HAPPY AND HOPEFUL AND JUST– I’m glad they all got there.  ^_^

Miguel leaned in to bump Darnell’s shoulder and Darnell just laughed along with him. And, a few minutes—and rounds of teasing—later, as he watched Miguel and Courfeyrac drive away… he marveled. If you’d asked him ten years ago if he’d ever see Miguel laugh like that—free and joyous and so purely happy—he’d have said no. Neither of them had had much to laugh about then. But, now…? For the first time, Darnell thought things just might work out for him, after all. And if Miguel was going to be OK… maybe it was time Darnell took a stab at it, too. He left the restaurant that night with a full stomach, a full calendar, and a full heart… and, for the first time in a long time, feeling like Musichetta’s joke just might be right… and he could fly.

5: What part was hardest to write?

Honestly?  ALL OF I SHALL GIVE YOU WINGS.  It fought me the whole way and I was trying to write it deep in the middle of that period of time when I was convinced that everything I was writing was pure crap and just trivial and banal and plodding and just… boring.  I felt like I was doing all telling and no showing and I used this fic to force my way past it and just put something on paper?  From the perspective of months later, I like it a lot better than I did when I first wrote it, but there are definitely things I would change if I were to go back and do it again.

10: Why did you choose this pairing for this particular story?

This ‘verse started off life as a meme answer, actually.  ^_^  The prompt was Confusion for Feuilly.  (It was your prompt, Ve.  ^_~)  And I knew I wanted to write sick!fic because Ve and I both really like sick!fic and I think I eventually settled on Courfeyrac because you and Ve had both been talking about Courfeyrac/Feuilly a lot and the more I thought about it, the more I liked it.  So, this seemed like a good time to dabble.  And I’d also wanted to write more ace and/or aro Courfeyrac and suddenly BOOM, there was the idea for the confusion in the prompt.  ^_^

A Great and Terrible Price: 1, 4, 6, 10, 13 (all or choose a couple)

Oh wow. I haven’t thought about this story in a LONG time.  ^_^  (For those interested, it’s explicit Jesus/Judas and Judas/Mary JCS fic.  So, you know… read at your own risk. ^_~)

Answers behind the cut.

(And if anyone else would like to send me questions, here they are! ^_^)

1: What inspired you to write the fic this way?

The beginning of my writing process is always that I get a line stuck in my head.  Usually it’s the opening line to the story.  The style of the story (POV/tense/general language/etc.) usually forms around it.  In the case of this story, the first line that popped into my head was this:

It is a terrible thing, to know when you are a child the exact date and time and place you are to die.

…and that really affected the way the story took shape.  Also that I was telling the story from Jesus’ POV – it felt like there needed to be a bit of weight to the language that I don’t always use.

4: What’s your favorite line of dialogue?

Heh.  I just realized that there IS no dialogue in this story until about 2/3 of the way through the first part.  I feel like that may be a common theme for me.  ;D

Anyway, Without getting obsessive about re-reading the whole story, I’ve always loved this bit of Mary’s dialogue:

Before I could give chase, however, a delicate hand alighted on my
arm and arrested my movement.  Mary.  Of course she had witnessed
everything.  After months of being so careful not to show preferential
treatment to one or the other of them, that she should have witnessed
that calculated cruelty on my part was insult added to the injury I had
already done Judas.  It was unforgivable.  I opened my mouth to speak,
to try to explain this all away, but Mary raised her other hand and
covered my lips, shook her head.  Her beautiful, dark eyes were so sad
as she said, “No.  Don’t explain.  Even you could not have words good
enough to explain what I just saw.”

Mary looked off into the
distance and when she looked back… there was disappointment in her
eyes.  She said, “Jesus… you are wise, that is true, but it is an
otherworldly wisdom.  You are not wise in the ways of this world as I am
– as Judas is.  It makes you precious to us both, to all of those who
follow you, but it means that you often do not see the world for what it
is.  Judas, of us all, tries the most to protect you from the world’s
cruel reality.  So, it is doubly cruel that when he is unsuccessful and
you are hurt, that you turn and lash out at the very hand which tried to
protect you.  Perhaps you should take this opportunity to think on why
that is.”  She straightened, eyes determined, “I will go after Judas.  
For now, you have forfeited that right.”  She then gathered her skirts
and took off running, leaving me to ponder both how I could have made
such a terrible blunder… and how Mary had come to care so for Judas
that she would step between us to defend him.

I still love this speech of Mary’s, especially because the reason Jesus and Judas had fought to begin with was because of Mary and Mary was the one who stepped in to defend Judas.  ^_^

6: What makes this fic special or different from all your other fics?

I’m not so sure anything makes it special?  But I mean… it’s JCS, but at the core it’s Bible porn.  Written from Jesus’ POV.  In first person.  I’m not sure I’d have had the guts to write that if I’d thought too hard about what I was doing.  XD  Also, there is het sex involved, which is not something I normally write.  ^_~

(Although, HAHAHAHA, “Why is the fic different from all other fic?” is very similar wording to the Four Questions and this canon takes place over Passover and that’s HILARIOUS.  XD)

10: Why did you choose this pairing for this particular story?

Oh, that was ALL on the actors playing the characters.  I don’t think I’d have shipped them in these configurations if it hadn’t been for the way the actors portrayed them and, let’s face it, for the relationships between the actors themselves.

13: What music did you listen to, if any, to get in the mood for writing this story? Or if you didn’t listen to anything, what do you think readers should listen to to accompany us while reading?

I don’t usually listen to music while writing OR reading.  I find it way too distracting, even if it’s just instrumental.  So I actually don’t know?  Maybe a bootleg of the 2012 JCS cast if you can find one?  ^_~

ahh if you’re still taking more prompts – Courfeyrac and Feuilly (obv), ♠ – one character adjusting the other’s jewelry/neck tie/ etc.?

I was having a rotten day (still am), so I thought maybe tackling one of these might put me in a better mood?

Anyway, this ficlet lives in the future of my Fais de Beaux Rêves series.  You don’t need to have read it to understand what’s going on, you just need to know this: Feuilly has a foster sister (Tania), who he is still close to and he and (an aro/ace) Courfeyrac have a lovely little queerplatonic relationship going on.  Enjoy?  ^_^

Feuilly reached up to pull at his bow tie.  He was pretty sure that the knot was supposed to be at the base of his throat, but given what a difficult time he was having swallowing around it, it felt like it was in his throat, instead.  He’d never worn a bow tie before, couldn’t have imagined a circumstance in his life that would have required it, but here he was.  In a bow tie.  And a tux.  With a chapel full of people just outside the doors and absolutely *certain* that he was going to royally fuck up.

Just as Feuilly was reaching up to pull on the bowtie, yet again, another’s hand reached out and covered his own before gently pulling it away.  A soft “tsk, tsk” noise came from somewhere over his right shoulder.  A moment later that other hand returned with its twin and reached up to loosen the bow tie just enough so that Feuilly could breathe, then proceeded to smooth the lay of his shirt and the lapels of his coat.

Feuilly turned in the circle of those arms, lips stretching into a smile that had to be just this side of gooey.  Courfeyrac was already smiling when he turned and leaned forward to place a soft kiss on his lips.  Such gestures were more common now than they had been in the beginning, but Feuilly was still leery of pursuing, of asking more than Courfeyrac was willing or able to give.  So the kiss he gave in return was equally light, a brush of lips, nothing more.  Still… it was enough.  Courfeyrac’s smile widened as he finished his tidying of Feuilly’s clothes.  Into the silence, he said, “Relax.  You’ll do just fine.  You just walk up the aisle, do your thing and that’s it.  The whole thing will be over before you know it and then there will be cake.”

Feuilly huffed out a soft laugh.  “I do like cake.”

“See?  A silver lining.”  Courfeyrac stepped back, eyes swiftly assessing of his handiwork.  He nodded.  “Perfect.  You’re going to do Tania proud.”

Feuilly reached out to grab Courfeyrac’s hand to stop him as he turned to leave.  His breath caught in his throat on his first attempt to speak, but he cleared his throat and tried again.  “I know you never wanted… but I… Do you ever regret that people assume…?”

Courfeyrac’s gaze softened even as his grip on Feuilly’s hand tightened.  “No.”


“No.”  Courfeyrac’s thumb brushed slowly over the wedding band on Feuilly’s finger, the smooth silver a twin to the one on his own.  He smiled again, a brief laugh escaping his lips as he shook his head.  “Maybe I’ve mellowed in my older age, but the things that bothered me when I was twenty don’t bother me nearly as much any more.  And maybe that’s you.  Maybe it’s because you never push.  Maybe it’s because you respect my boundaries.  Maybe it’s because you’re willing to let this relationship be what it is without trying to make it something it isn’t.  Maybe it’s just because you really were the right person at the right time.  I don’t know, and I don’t care.  I love being married to you.  I love *you*.  Let everyone assume what they will.  You and I know better.  Our friends know better.  Your family knows better, even if mine is a little slow on the uptake.  It doesn’t matter, as long as we’re happy, right?”

Feuilly’s heart rate kicked up at that, for any entirely different reason than his earlier nerves.  It wasn’t often that either of them dared ask the other so explicitly if they were happy with the way things had turned out, but this was a better answer than Feuilly could have ever hoped for.  He leaned forward for another kiss, whispering his answer into Courfeyrac’s lips.  “Damned right.”

When Courfeyrac leaned back, the smile on his lips had turned playful.  He spun Feuilly around and pushed him towards the door.  “Then get out there and walk Tania down the aisle.  The sooner we get this wedding started, the sooner we can get to the party that comes after… and the cake.”

Moments later, as Feuilly was watching Courfeyrac walk away to claim his seat next to Fantine and Darnell, a gentle hand reached out to tuck itself into the crook of his arm.  Turning to take in the full on radiance that was his foster sister’s beaming smile, Feuilly couldn’t help but smile in return.  “You ready?”

Tania leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss into Feuilly’s cheek before answering.  “Didn’t you hear your husband?  Let’s get down this aisle and get to the cake!“

Feuilly laughed.  “You’re both hopeless.”

“But you wouldn’t have either of us any other way, would you, big brother?”

Feuilly leaned down to touch his forehead to Tania’s, before turning forward to face the church aisle, and the seat waiting for him next to Courfeyrac.  “No.  No, I wouldn’t.  Not for the world.”

For the wip meme (if you’re still up for it): hands, eyes, lips (or any body parts that you think might give me better results haha)

Sorry I didn’t get to this yesterday!  And, uh… ‘hands’ got you the best result… hands down.  ;D  So, here you go:

Combeferre ran his hands over his face, sliding them under his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose, again.  It was several minutes before he even attempted to speak.  When he did, his voice was harsh in a way that Grantaire had never heard it be before.  “He’s exhausted.  He’s in pain.  I know that.  But you don’t know Courfeyrac the way I do.  When he’s hurting, he pushes people away.  It’s just what he does.  And he’ll deny it until Doomsday if you try to confront him about it.  I just have to trust that when he’s ready, he’ll talk to me.  I’m willing to wait for as long as it takes for that to happen.”  He looked up.  “That’s why I didn’t ask for details.  I don’t want them from you.  I want them from him.”

And here’s another one, from a different WiP in a different fandom (under the cut because nsfw), just for kicks:


Curt raised his hands, clutching at the rails of the headboard behind him, and closed his eyes.  Moments later, lips descended over his own, hot and devouring, then fell away as though they’d never been.  When they returned, it was to his neck, sucking bruises into skin left pale from too many days spent hiding from the sun.  Hands joined lips, then, tracing pictures into skin with the bite of nails just this side of too short for the task.  A moan rattled in Curt’s throat, rising and falling with each bite, each scratch, each harsh thrust, and still he clutched at the railings, unwilling, even unable, to open his eyes.  The body above his surged forward again, gaining speed, losing rhythm.  Curt’s breath caught as he arched up in answer, gripping the railings tighter, tighter, ever tighter, to avoid accidentally touching in response; squeezing his eyes shut harder, harder, ever harder, to avoid looking, as well.

That wasn’t how this game was played.

Anyone else want to send me a word for a WiP section?  ^_^