miércoles, 22 de noviembre de 2017

ENJOLTAIRE YUZU FICTION

Yuzu fiction would be somewhere in between lime and lemon: Lime goes further into the sexual, with heavy making out and possibly some light groping. Some might not have these, but rather qualify as a lime for hinting at lemon-scale hot action.



Prise de Fer

tenlittlebullets

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Grantaire would laugh bitterly about it afterwards, of course. He hadn't even know what Enjolras was at the time. The sum total of what he knew about Enjolras was that he was a good fencing partner, that he was absurdly good-looking, and that he didn't talk about his personal life. Grantaire preferred not to pry into his personal life, anyway, because Enjolras burned with the secret flame of religious fanatics and Grantaire didn't want to destroy his good opinion of a well-matched fencing partner by asking. As long as he didn't know the details, he could find Enjolras' wholesome shining-eyed zealotry charming instead of offensively stupid, bask in its diffuse glow, stand up a little straighter in Enjolras' presence...
Christ, he should've recognized the signs and run while he still had the chance.
They maintained their delicate no-questions-asked equilibrium until the day Grantaire asked Enjolras if he knew savate. Enjolras had been raised on savate. He was magnificent at it. By the third time he knocked Grantaire's feet out from under him, certain physical effects of Grantaire's admiration were making themselves known, much to his embarrassment—degenerate he may be, but even he had never bothered pushing his depravity as far as lust for his own sex. The fourth time, he managed to take Enjolras down with him, and so landed flat on his back with a panting Saint Michael on top of him.
If Grantaire was feeling awkward, surely Enjolras would work himself into a fit of puritanical outrage when he noticed the obvious. It was this thought, combined with Grantaire's obstinate instincts towards devilment and provocation, that gave him the reckless idea to wriggle his hips and leer. That was it, really: he wanted to see Enjolras' reaction. But Enjolras, ever the deft sparring partner, parried him with a raised eyebrow and a wry, tight-lipped smile, as though to say Yes, I noticed it too. How about that. That was when Grantaire realized that Enjolras was in a similar state of excitement.
Well, hell. There was a first time for everything. Why not sample the sin of the ancients with a boy who looked like a classical statue? Grantaire threw caution to the wind and pulled Enjolras down into a messy, hot, open-mouthed kiss.
He shouldn't have been so surprised when Enjolras jerked away and sprang to his feet. Or so disappointed. "Oh, come on," he snorted to cover the sting of rejection, "don't play coy, it's plain enough that both of us want it. Let's try it, it'll be a lark."
Enjolras drew a breath and composed himself. For a man in his shirtsleeves, it was a marvellous impression of a dishevelled lover buttoning up his figurative coat and straightening his metaphorical lapels. "I'm sure it would, but it's not a desire I choose to pursue." He looked apologetic rather than outraged. It was a curiously perfunctory sort of apology, though: underneath it, Enjolras had suddenly turned to granite.
Grantaire sighed. He was almost impressed by the transformation. "A pederast and a Puritan. Don't tell me, Enjolras, let me guess—you're bound for the priesthood."
Enjolras had already turned to gather up his equipment and leave. On his way out he shot Grantaire an enigmatic smile. "Come by the Café Musain tomorrow night," he said. "You'll see what kind of priesthood I'm bound for."

Fulfilment

tenlittlebullets

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Like a vine to a trellis, Grantaire seizes on all the support he will never have on his own. For his every weakness, Enjolras has a strength, for every vice a virtue: he counters drunkenness with sobriety, cynicism with belief, unspeakable lusts with chastity. Grantaire can never hope to be him, but he can admire him from afar.
One night, to his shock, he finds Enjolras crumpled up at the table after a meeting, whispering, "I can't."
"Drink," he says, an offer he's made a thousand times, "you'll feel better." And Enjolras, to Grantaire's great surprise, accepts the absinthe and drains it with a grimace.
"You know what it's like to doubt," Enjolras says hoarsely. "Does it ever stop hurting?"
Grantaire does not answer, but takes his idol into his arms and presses a kiss to the marble forehead. Enjolras, the mist of the green fairy already clouding his eyes, looks up and kisses him fiercely on the mouth, clinging to him for comfort. Grantaire, bewildered, accepts the kisses and the desperation and the taste of the alcohol on Enjolras' breath.
The next morning, his Apollo does not shine half so brightly anymore. Grantaire keeps drinking, and looks away.

A Tight Spot

tenlittlebullets

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The footsteps came closer. Enjolras cast an irritated glance on the locked door, and then his eye fell on its neighbour, the only door still left open to them.
"Get in," he said. “We mustn’t be seen here." And he flung Grantaire into the broom closet.
Enjolras barely had time to join him inside and pull the door shut behind him before the footsteps entered the room. Grantaire hissed an oath under his breath. One of his feet had landed squarely in a wooden bucket as he stumbled backwards into the closet, and the other was braced awkwardly against the front corner of the closet for support. Now that Enjolras was crammed in with him, there was no room to regain his balance; indeed, Enjolras pinning him against the wall was the only thing keeping him upright.
They waited. Low, indistinct voices murmured outside. Grantaire hardly dared breathe.
Enjolras’ breath was soft and steady in his ear. Grantaire’s face had wound up shoved up into Enjolras’ throat during their hasty retreat into the broom closet, and he could feel the skin under his lips throbbing gently with the beat of Enjolras’ pulse, as slow and steady as if Enjolras did this every day. Grantaire resisted the urge to fidget. Enjolras could be as calm as he wanted, but Grantaire did not do this every day, and his nerves were shredded and his foot was beginning to fall asleep.
He tried shifting his weight to a more comfortable position. That only left more of his weight resting on the thigh between his legs, which was not a position he wanted to be in with Enjolras, thank you very much. But Enjolras must have noticed the tension in Grantaire’s posture, or the way his legs were starting to tremble with the effort of staying upright, and he was already shifting to help Grantaire reposition himself. Grantaire would be the first to admit he was an uncivilized brute, but even he wasn’t churlish enough to refuse a kindness from Enjolras, however small. He didn’t trust himself to dislodge his feet without upending half the contents of the broom closet and giving them away, so the only thing he could do was rest more and more of his weight on Enjolras.
He ended up with an arm slung around Enjolras’ shoulders for support, Enjolras’ hands on his waist to steady him, and Enjolras’ hips pinning him to the wall. “O treasure, O dearest one," he muttered as quietly as he could into the hollow of Enjolras’ throat, “I find myself at last in your sweet embrace." Enjolras shushed him, and Grantaire shut up willingly enough. After all, he’d only been trying to make light of the fact that they were really very close, and that Enjolras’ leg under his groin was beginning to produce effects that they’d both laugh off afterwards. If Enjolras were the sort of person who ever laughed. He was standing as immobile as ever, seemingly unaware of what was pressing with increasing firmness into his thigh. Either he was the most virginal idiot Grantaire had ever met, or he was saving up an explosion of anger until after the coast was clear. Bastard. Grantaire tried not to consider either of those possibilities too closely, because for reasons he declined to speculate about, doing so only exacerbated the problem.
Outside, the babble of voices rose in volume. The tendons of Enjolras’ neck twisted as he turned his head to listen. His hair was in Grantaire’s face, tickling his nose and smelling faintly of gunpowder. Grantaire squirmed away from it, trying not to sneeze, and almost knocked the two of them out of balance; Enjolras hauled him back into position, and the clenching of the lean muscles of his thigh made Grantaire twitch and bite back another curse through gritted teeth. Enjolras’ lack of reaction was worrying. Surely not even he could have failed to notice that Grantaire was now hard as a bar of iron and engaged in a futile struggle not to hump his leg. Maybe he was waiting to see just how much of a disgrace Grantaire would make of himself. In that case he wouldn’t be disappointed, because disgracing himself was the only thing Grantaire had ever truly excelled at.
He wondered, absurdly, whether lewd attentions from one man to another were legitimate grounds for a duel, and if so whether Enjolras would be offended enough to challenge him. Probably the rules of honor, those stuffy old provisions for when two men could slaughter each other like beasts and call it civilized, were too honorable to make provision for the eventuality of two men rutting like beasts. Still, there were worse ways to die than on the point of Enjolras’ sword. Pistols would be more customary, of course, but Grantaire really wouldn’t blame Enjolras for wanting to run him through after this.
He was starting to lose control of the rocking of his hips. Enjolras, unbelievably, remained impassive. He was going to kill Grantaire after this, Grantaire was certain of it now. He wondered which would be worse, finishing against Enjolras’ thigh or having to walk out of here next to Enjolras with his prick still tenting his trousers.
It seemed his choice was about to be made for him. The voices outside were moving right past the door of the closet; Grantaire held his breath; the footsteps were receding, leaving them alone once more. Grantaire let out a ragged sigh, resigning himself to the world’s strangest case of blue balls.
And then—Grantaire was sure he was hallucinating—Enjolras pushed his thigh even more firmly against Grantaire’s erection. More than that, he slid it back and forth—twice—three times—Grantaire’s back arched, his fist clenched around Enjolras’ sleeve, and he came, with no noise but a gasp of amazement.
Light flooded the closet, illuminating Enjolras’ hair from behind like a halo. Grantaire, giddy and disbelieving, almost laughed. He extracted his foot from the bucket and stumbled out after Enjolras, his knees weak. They were alone. They hadn’t been seen.
Grantaire opened his mouth, ready to erupt in excuses, apologies, insincere quips about what a swine he was to sully Enjolras’ purity, earnest assurances that he had no idea where that came from and it certainly had nothing to do with anything he felt for Enjolras. The suspicion that the assurances were insincere and the quips were in earnest settled in his stomach like a meal of lead.
But Enjolras forestalled the entire tirade with a finger pressed impatiently to Grantaire’s lips, and that in itself was enough to make Grantaire swear aloud and collapse against the doorframe for support. He braced himself, waiting for the explosion.
"It won’t be visible," said Enjolras calmly.
"What?"
"The stain won’t show up on dark fabric."
Grantaire gaped.
"Or at least, it will be easier to hide than having to walk out of here in the state you were in."
Grantaire allowed himself sink slowly to the floor, letting out the breath he’d been holding. “You’re not angry?"
"Why should I be? It was a bodily response to a position neither of us could get out of."
"A bodily response," said Grantaire with a bitterness that surprised even him. “That’s an excellent line. I’ll have to remember it next time a girl slaps me."
Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “Would you rather I were hitting you?"
"You’re naïve to discount the possibility," Grantaire muttered, too exhausted to keep from being flippant. “Should you wish to be educated, I can give you the address of at least three houses in Paris where men pay money for that exact privilege, delivered either by a woman dressed up as a schoolmarm or a man dressed up as a woman."
"Now you’re just being crude. Let’s get out of here before someone else comes along."
Grantaire heaved himself to his feet, steadfastly refusing to examine why he felt so dismissed, or so strangely elated. Trust Enjolras not to be base enough to fly into a rage with him. Trust Enjolras not to think the entire incident could be anything more than a “bodily response." Trust Enjolras to be infuriating.
If Grantaire had been paying attention, he would have seen the bulge in Enjolras’ trousers before Enjolras hastily buttoned up his coat.

Loophole

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"Go on, do it—"
"Enjolras."
"—see if you can follow through on something for once in your—"
“Enjolras.”
Enjolras snapped awake to find himself hard, sweaty, and grinding into Combeferre’s leg. He sprang back, horror-struck, and would have rolled right off the narrow bed if Combeferre hadn’t grabbed him by the shoulder. God. Had Combeferre been awake the whole time?
"There. You were dreaming, that’s all."
"I’m sorry," said Enjolras stiffly, looking at the ceiling to avoid Combeferre’s wide-open eyes shining at him in the dark.
"Oh, it’s all right. Perhaps there’s some truth after all in Grantaire’s jokes about the dreams of chaste men."
Enjolras ground his teeth, loudly enough to elicit a startled noise from Combeferre, and groaned, “Don’t talk to me about—” He ran a hand over his eyes and down his face, as though to wipe away the last vestiges of the dream, but his erection was forming a tent in the sheets, visible in obscene silhouette against the barely-lighter backdrop of the whitewashed wall. “Combeferre, do you ever have erotic dreams about someone you’d never think of touching in real life? Bizarre stuff, nonsense. A face you’ve never seen outside a cheap theatrical poster, the fat middle-aged housekeeper from when you were a child, the professor whose exam you’re about to fail. More disturbing than arousing once you wake up.”
Combeferre’s hand found Enjolras’ shoulder again and settled there. “Not since I was sixteen. It seems chastity is taking its toll on you.”
"So it seems, but there’s nothing to be done about it, is there? Not when I can’t stand the thought of dividing my passion between our cause and… someone outside it." Enjolras sighed. "I apologize. For my conduct while asleep."
"I won’t take it personally." Combeferre paused, and the hand on Enjolras’ shoulder fumbled through something resembling a caress. "Unless you want me to?"
"Combeferre…?"
"It’s only a thought, but… I’m not outside our cause, am I?"
Enjolras slid closer, turning to face him for the first time since he’d woken up and eyeing him speculatively. “A brave offer. Many men would be disgusted. Some would sleep on the floor, or in the gutter, or take their chances with the police prowling outside their own flat, rather than share a bed with the man willing to make it.”
"The Greeks did it," Combeferre remarked, and slipped his arm from Enjolras’ shoulder to his back, up under his nightshirt and along his spine. "So did the Romans."
Enjolras shivered and returned the embrace, pulling Combeferre’s body flush up against his own. “You’ve always been the broad-minded one, haven’t you,” he whispered in his friend’s ear, so close that his lips brushed the earlobe and made Combeferre gasp and start in his arms. “And so devoted to education. All right, let’s suppose that chastity might have a loophole. Teach me about the sin of the Greeks.”
Combeferre squirmed as Enjolras, evidently pleased with what he’d figured out so far, traced his tongue lightly up the shell of his ear. “You’re on track to not need any lessons at all,” he said drily into Enjolras’ neck. “But here.” And he spat into his hand and slipped it under the covers to take hold of Enjolras’ straining erection.
Enjolras gasped. He’d been grinding against Combeferre’s thigh just minutes before, but this—sudden, deliberate, undertaken in full consciousness of what they were doing—crossed a line into a place he’d hardly been aware might exist. Combeferre brusquely hiked up his own nightshirt and took Enjolras’ cock between his thighs, and Enjolras cried out and closed his eyes, not sure whether it was the ecstasy of being surrounded by heated flesh that drove him to do so or an uneasy sense that at this moment, in this act, it would be sacrilege for them to look each other in the face.
He rolled on top of Combeferre, groaning, and thrust blindly a few times before spending with shocking force. When he opened his eyes Combeferre was grinning at him, murmuring, “That was quick, shows you probably needed it,” and he pressed his face into Combeferre’s shoulder out of a shame that had nothing to do with his friend’s affectionate teasing.
"Technically," Combeferre said, "if this is the sin of the Greeks we’re exploring here, one of us should be the lover and one the beloved, but with your permission I think we can finish this in a more straightforwardly egalitarian manner…"
"Hm? Oh, of course," Enjolras said, and let Combeferre take his turn thrusting between his thighs, resting his chin on Combeferre’s shoulder and staring at the shadow of the window-frame on the wall. He’d been awake for a while now. It was unreasonable that his dream was still hovering over him. But this whole encounter, fleshy and sticky though it was, had had a touch of unreality to it from the start, and he half-expected to wake up again alone in his own bed. It would be a relief. Maybe then he wouldn’t be fighting off the bizarre sense that he was committing a betrayal.
Combeferre sighed and spent in his turn, and nestled sleepily against Enjolras’ chest. “Satisfactory education?”
"Enlightening," said Enjolras softly. "Though I don’t think this is a loophole we can exploit more than once." The word ‘exploit’ fell heavy on his tongue and he squeezed his eyes shut again so he wouldn’t have to see Combeferre dozing, friendly and trustful and honest, against his chest. For an experiment meant to keep from dividing his passions—between ideal and ardour, philia and eros—it only seemed to have exacerbated the divide. His lips formed a silent apology to Combeferre, and though he kept his eyes shut he stayed awake for a long time, cursing the looming phantom in their bed with every too-ardent fiber of his being.

Sound and Fury

tenlittlebullets

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Grantaire, affecting an expression of disgust, slung an arm around Bahorel’s shoulders and turned to the door. “Come on, let’s go dance with pretty girls at the Grande Chaumière. There’s nothing to be found here tonight but the twittering of birds, or perhaps of dreamers, which amounts to the same thing: a great deal of noise, which gaping simpletons take for the sublimest of music, but which in reality signifies nothing and accomplishes nothing, except in the case where the prattlers are birds of ill omen trumpeting a glorious bloodbath to come. Truly I don’t know why I come to the Musain anymore. The wine is bad, the birdsong is ear-splitting, and Louison has a most unbecoming wart on her chin. I’m better off breaking my feet trying to keep up with the grisettes and their can-can."
As he left, Enjolras caught his sleeve. Grantaire stopped short.
"Why do you keep coming here, Grantaire?"
A strange expression spread over Grantaire’s misshapen face. “Madness," he said. “Intoxication. Both. It must be, because I know of no good reason why I should seek out such a sorry flock of dreamers."
-
That night, tolerably drunk and rejected by all the grisettes he’d pursued, Grantaire dreamed. Sprawled across his empty bed, he dreamed he saw Enjolras in the guise of St Michael, trampling him underfoot without seeing him as Grantaire lay insensible in the gutter outside the Grande Chaumière. Enjolras drew his sword and launched himself into the heavens, and Grantaire barely had time to press a kiss to the heel lifting itself from his face as the air resounded with the beating of mighty wings.
He awoke to find that he’d soiled his sheets in the night. Cursing himself, cursing the dance-hall absinthe that had given him such grotesque dreams, cursing whatever demon had given him bad luck with women so that it could invade even dreams such as that one with lust, he rolled over and groped on the floor for a bottle of brandy. In the absence of any magical spring of Lethe, he’d have to settle for whatever measure of oblivion his aqua vitae would grant him. Above all he was determined not to think about it. It meant nothing, after all. It was only a dream, and what were dreams but the meaningless twittering of the mind as it slept?

As I Would Not Be a Slave

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"I'd do anything. Black your boots."
The beast Enjolras keeps chained up inside him cracks an eye open at that. Ruthlessly he shoves it down, his breath quickening. "Don't offer that, Grantaire," he says harshly. "Don't abase yourself in front of me." It's an order he'd give on principle, of course. He more than anyone has reason to loathe the very idea of man on his knees before man. But it's also a plea. He has serious matters to attend to tonight, and he hasn't the time or the energy to deal with base instincts he thought he'd locked away long ago.
But Grantaire looks up at him with a wry grin and the gleam of challenge in his eyes. "Why not? You call yourselves the friends of the abaissé, and I've miserably flunked every other way to earn your friendship. Why shouldn't I slide that little bit lower to reach the last avenue to your good graces?" So saying, he slides loose-limbed out of his chair--oh, he's definitely been hitting the bottle tonight--and onto all fours in front of Enjolras. His words are sardonic, but once he's there he looks up at Enjolras as though unsure whether he's joking or serious. To Enjolras' horror, that look sends a bolt of arousal shuddering down his spine.
This has gone far enough. It's the last thing he needs right now. "Because," Enjolras says with steely composure, "you have no idea what you're playing at." His voice is calm, his hands locked into place at his sides; he would grab Grantaire by the hair and spit the words in his face to impress upon him that this isn't funny anymore, if he didn't know exactly which devil had whispered that idea in his ear.
Grantaire's eyes flick downwards and come to rest, for several seconds so excruciatingly pointed that Enjolras can almost hear them ticking away in his head, on the swelling in Enjolras' trousers. Then he looks back up into his face, his gaze at once submissive and defiant, and arches an eyebrow. "Don't I?"
Enjolras recoils. Grantaire, as though even his sense of balance depends on leaning upon Enjolras, sways and falls forward at Enjolras' feet. At once his voice turns tender, supplicating: "Oh, Enjolras, you should have said something. Did you think I'd mind? Here, let me do this for you. In this one little way at least, let me be of some use to you." He draws himself up onto his knees, one hand on Enjolras' thigh.
Every word goes straight to his cock. Breathing hard, struggling to keep his head, Enjolras hisses down at Grantaire, "This isn't of use to me. The very opposite, in fact. Do you think this is simply about lust? That I've been repressing some sordid little penchant for sodomy and just can't contain myself around your charms? Don't flatter yourself, Grantaire. There's a reason I keep my desires on a tight leash. Now get up off your kneesbefore you find out how dangerous those desires really are."
Grantaire bows his head, soaking up the abuse. Guilt writhes in Enjolras' chest; in trying to put a stop to this folly he has inadvertently indulged in it, and every hard word that passes his lips only stokes the fire that has caught within him. And Grantaire is not getting up. On the contrary, he's sinking down, lowering himself slowly and deliberately until his cheek rests on Enjolras' left foot.
"What are you doing," Enjolras spits down at him, furious and terrified of how fragile his grip is on the vestiges of his self-control.
"Blacking your boots," says Grantaire. And he closes his eyes and presses a long, reverent kiss to the toe of Enjolras' shoe.
Enjolras' knees almost buckle under him. It's been years. Years. And when he came back to himself that first and last time and saw what he'd inflicted on another living soul, he swore never again. But Grantaire is mouthing at his boots with an expression almost of rapture, his tongue sliding out wetly to caress the leather, and when Enjolras gathers the presence of mind to try to kick him away, he takes it on the chin--literally--and doggedly returns to his self-appointed task without a murmur of complaint. It's more than compliance, it's a slavish joy in his own degradation, and it's like throwing oil on an open fire. Enjolras' whole mind is consumed in it. He watches, with shudders of heat spreading over his skin, as Grantaire licks the very dust of the streets off his boots. And when Grantaire reaches the sharp corner of the raised heel and tries to clean underneath it with eager lips and tongue, Enjolras, like a horrified third-party spectator to his own actions, watches himself raise his heel just enough to catch Grantaire's lower lip under the corner and grind it cruelly into the floor.
Grantaire cries out; Enjolras ignores it. Let him get a taste of what he's dealing with and see if he still wants it. He doesn't stop until he sees blood on the floor and Grantaire is whimpering with pain. Then he snaps back to himself and pulls his foot away, aghast, and so aroused he feels like he could tear right through the fabric of his trousers.
Grantaire lets out a tiny sob. His lip is split, the inside of it must be torn up and bleeding fiercely, and he's... he's using his tongue and his good lip to try to clean the blood off of Enjolras' boot.
It's too much. Enjolras yanks him away by the hair and hauls him up onto his knees, and backhands him across the face, knuckles cracking against his cheekbone. "What the hell do you think you're playing at?" he demands of Grantaire. "Why are you encouraging this? I'll hurt you. I have hurt you. This is no avenue to my good graces, Grantaire, I despise this part of myself, and I'll probably despise you if you don't have the self-respect to put a stop to it. Go on. Have some sense, for once. Tell me to walk out the door right now and I'll do it, and I'll thank you. I'd do it myself if this weren't the only thing that--the only way I can have--" He breaks off, shame stopping his lips. He can't remember ever being this hard in his life. "Stop me," he whispers.
Grantaire looks him up and down. Swallows blood. Closes his eyes. "Hit me again," he says.
Furious at Grantaire's complicity in his own degradation, Enjolras backhands him across the other cheek, and he lets out a strangled moan. For the first time, Enjolras realizes that Grantaire is hard, too.
"Anything you want," Grantaire says hoarsely. "Anything. Hurt me if you want, fuck me if you want, call me worthless, call me a filthy whore for enjoying it. Just let me be of some use to you."
Enjolras gives in. He hates himself for it. But he'd asked Grantaire to stop him, and instead Grantaire gave him permission--practically invited him--and now he's tumbling right over the edge of the precipice. "You do realize that's pathetic," he sneers, curling his fingers in Grantaire's hair and twisting, not even sure anymore how much is truth and how much is performance. "You've sunk so low that you think this is all you're good for, don't you?"
"Yes," Grantaire breathes, his face contorted in ecstasies of pain, "yes, because it's true."
"You want to be used."
"Yes."
"You'd beg for it, because you aren't sure you're worthy even of that." Enjolras cuts off Grantaire's reply by tightening his hand in his hair, pulling his head back until his bared throat can only work soundlessly up and down. "Go on then. Beg."
"En--Enjolras--"
"Yes?"
"Please--"
Enjolras throws him to the floor by his hair, and Grantaire curls in on himself, stifling a sob. Enjolras kicks him in the ribs from behind, the words rushing out of his mouth in a flood. "Go on, get to it, I know you're a wine-soaked degenerate and I've seen the way you look at me, so loosen your tongue and tell me. Let me in on one of your filthy fantasies. Ask me to make it come true."
Grantaire mumbles something indistinguishable into the floor. Enjolras yanks him up by the back of his cravat. "I can't hear you," he says coldly, certain that he'd be frightening himself right now if he had any sense left to be frightened. He forces his thumbs into Grantaire's mouth and drags the nails roughly over the inside of his tattered lip. Both nails come out bloodied.
Grantaire seems to have forgotten the erection tenting Enjolras' trousers, forgotten that this entire travesty is for Enjolras' gratification. He looks ashamed, scared, almost shy. "I... I've dreamed of pleasuring you," he mumbles. "With my mouth." He averts his eyes and flinches as though expecting a blow.
Instead Enjolras grips him under the chin and forces him to meet his eyes. "Ask me nicely," he says, barely keeping his voice from shaking with anticipation now that he knows what's coming.
Grantaire takes a deep breath and somehow manages to look Enjolras in the eye as he whispers, "Please, Enjolras. Please let me suck your cock."
"Louder."
"Please let me suck your cock--I--oh God, Enjolras, I want to suck you off, I want to let you fuck my mouth, I want you to spend on my face or spend down my throat and make me swallow every drop, I want to taste you, I want to pleasure you, I... please, Enjolras, just this once."
Enjolras almost climaxes then and there. He manages to keep himself under control, barely, and nods. "Very well. Hands at your sides. Stay on your knees." He unbuttons the fall of his trousers, and finally, finally, his aching erection springs free. Grantaire presses a reverent kiss to the very tip of it, and a shudder runs through Enjolras' entire body.
"Go on, then."
Slowly, carefully, looking like he's trying to commit each moment to memory for all eternity, Grantaire takes Enjolras' cock inch by inch into his mouth. His mouth is warm, wet with spit and probably with blood, and seems to pulse and clutch at his heated flesh. Deeper, deeper, and there's still almost enough room for Enjolras to wrap his hand around the base when Grantaire chokes and pulls back. Enjolras, startled into a moan by the spasming of Grantaire's throat, barely gives him time to recover before seizing fistfuls of his hair and holding his head in place as he thrusts into his mouth. He has to distract himself somehow or he'll come immediately, so he starts to talk: "You're loving this, aren't you? Being debased. You think you deserve it. That you're lucky to get it. You like the abuse. The more I hurt you--the more you like it--" He forces himself deeper, ignoring--no, relishing--the way Grantaire's throat chokes and gags and convulses around the head of his cock. As if to confirm his words, Grantaire somehow manages to relax under the onslaught, his mouth going slack, and if one of Grantaire's hands weren't stealing furtively into his trousers to stroke himself, Enjolras might worry he's passing out for lack of air. He's not, though, and Enjolras groans as he feels the tip of his cock sliding against the silken heat at the back of Grantaire's throat. "And you know I--despise you sometimes--" he continues, "with your drinking, and whoring, and gambling, and idling, and spewing bile--without even understanding--what you're poisoning--" Grantaire's lips are barely an inch from the curls at the base of Enjolras' cock, and Enjolras can't resist thrusting, driving himself even deeper into Grantaire's mouth until he's fully buried inside him, pulling back just to do it again.
"But the worst part," he gasps as Grantaire chokes back an inhuman keening noise that vibrates up through Enjolras' groin, "the worst part is," and oh, he's can't hold it back much longer, "that I'm just telling you... what you want to hear." He thrusts himself in all the way to the hilt, holds himself there with both hands wrapped around Grantaire's neck, knows Grantaire's split lip is smearing blood all over the base of his cock. "All the things you don't believe," he chokes out, "and the one thing I'll never forgive you for--" But then he's over the edge, he's climaxing, he's so far down Grantaire's throat that he can feel his own hands tightening around it, and when he pulls back he's still spending, flooding Grantaire's mouth with his seed. Grantaire, true to his word, swallows every drop.
Enjolras' knees finally give way and he buckles down to the floor next to Grantaire. He feels hollow, even as the aftershocks race through him. Grantaire is gulping down desperate lungfuls of air and still frantically stroking himself. They are both kneeling on the floor, completely undone.
Enjolras realizes he'd been in the middle of a sentence, and breathes out a long sigh, taking a moment to collect himself before finishing it. "All those things you don't believe," he repeats softly, "and the one thing I'll never forgive you for is, you wouldn't believe me if I told you that you were worth more than you give yourself credit for." He reaches for Grantaire's cock, and Grantaire spends instantly in his hand with a gasp.
"Because it's not true," Enjolras continues, guilt beginning to gnaw at his insides. "You don't deserve any of it. I..." He looks at Grantaire, who is bruised and bleeding and staring at him with glazed, uncomprehending eyes. "Grantaire, I'm so sorry."
"What for?" Grantaire says thickly.
"All of this."
Grantaire shrugs. Coughs. Blinks a few times and runs his hands over his face like a man jerking out of sleep. "Asked you to, didn't I? You get off on dealing it out, I get off on taking it, works for me."
"Grantaire. Don't tell me you did all of this because you think you deserve it."
"Pft. Don't forget I was just as turned on as you were," Grantaire says evasively. He stretches, and Enjolras, seized by a sudden impulse, wraps an arm around his shoulders. Grantaire stares as though he's never witnessed such a gesture before in his life.
"Being turned on by something and believing it are two very separate things," says Enjolras. "I... don't think I could live with myself otherwise."
"Hmph, well, you're the expert on believing, I defer to your wisdom. Just try not to get turned on by this particular thing, O Annihilator of Man's Dominion Over Man, until I've had a few days to heal up."
Enjolras, very gently, cups Grantaire's face in his hand. "We're never doing this again. I'm never inflicting this on anyone again. Even this time was a mistake."
Grantaire buttons himself back into his trousers and steals a kiss on the palm of Enjolras' hand. "If you say so." He stands up, only a little bit unsteadily, and turns to the door. "All the same, if you change your mind..."

how do you solve a problem like nuntaire? grantaire.


 grantaire is legitimately a nun. grantaire is a nun c. 1300s England I guess? grantaire is a nun anywhere. any nunnery. just do this.

The following scrap of parchment was found in the walls of the convent of Chichester. Modern punctuation has been added to ease reading comprehension.

 ‘To my dear sister in Christ,

 I must recommend the relocation of Sister Continentia – she has become even worse since the incident with the communion wine, which she drank after being banned from working in the brewery. She attempted to repent for drinking the wine by leading the evening prayers, but instead of beginning the Pater Noster, she proceeded to recite some obscenity on ‘sol natis’ before vomiting dangerously near to the monstrance and passing out. Sister Continentia tempts her fellow sisters into all manners of vices – or at least she tries, if they would only respond to her constant mooning about. Though she has considerable talent for illumination, her marginalia are perpetually indecent and she is a sloppy copyist. I cannot suggest how Sister Continentia should be put to work, as I have detected no bent towards industry in her, other than towards the consumption of spirits and the representation of genitalia. Nevertheless, please – take Sister Continentia somewhere else.’

 Written in the marginalia of the epistle, in a different hand, was the note saying ‘the wine wasn’t even very good,’ accompanied by a picture of a woman in nothing but a wimple.
**************************************

 singlesticks more like rubbin' dicks. enjolras/grantaire


 3-sentence porn prompt: Enjolras/Grantaire fencing or singlestick sparring turns into accidental frottage. (Whether or not Grantaire literally trips and falls on Enjolras' dick is up to authorial discretion.)
For someone who claimed to be good at singlestick, Grantaire seemed to be uniquely bad at it; he was, granted, much more nimble than Enjolras had expected and he was quick to use his scarf to deflect a blow, but Grantaire kept tangling their feet together and setting them tumbling onto the floor, offending both Enjolras’s spine and his dignity as Grantaire repeatedly rubbing against his groin provoked a reaction.

 Grantaire’s latest misstep had Enjolras falling on his already bruised tailbone, Grantaire’s solid weight pressing him even harder against the floor and Grantaire was already mumbling an apology, incapable even at getting up as his hips jerked once and Enjolras found himself letting out a breath that sounded too much like a moan.

 “Grantaire,” Enjolras said, speaking very low and forcing Grantaire to look him in the eye by tugging on his curls, “you are going to finish what you very clearly started and we are never going to talk about this again.”

 *******************

what goes unsaid. enjolras/grantaire
E/R Enjolras owes Grantaire money

It was going on the third week that Enjolras owed Grantaire three francs; Grantaire couldn’t even remember what Enjolras had needed, there was only the memory of Enjolras looking vaguely embarrassed when he realized he’d left his wallet at home and Grantaire offering to pay, receiving a ‘thank you’ for the trouble and three interminable weeks of wondering if he would ever see his money again.

 “You must broach the subject with him, my friend,” L’aigle said, chewing thoughtfully on the shared lunch they’d brought with them to the Luxembourg, “for otherwise, he will never pay you back – rich people have no concept that money exists, because it is something they never worry about, and I am certain that if you only asked him, Enjolras would erase the debt and likely give you some interest, which you must nobly refuse, because he won’t realize he’s being patronizing.”

 Grantaire watched longingly as Enjolras and Courfeyrac engaged in an unseemly bout of wrestling in the grass, hoping that Enjolras’s wallet would accidentally fly out while Courfeyrac struggled to pin him and spare everyone the pain of mentioning the unmentionable.
********************************

 m. de dents has cils-ed your fate. enjolras/grantaire
Gros points him out first, the tall young man who stood out from the crowd by the fineness of his clothes and his foppish blond curls, declaring that M. de Dents (for he has truly exquisite teeth when he smiles at his friends, even from the polite distance the Baron and Grantaire are keeping) would be a fine artist’s model only so long as he kept away from the fearsome Mlle de Hors, out for his money and a sprawling country mansion.

 Grantaire picks up the narrative, trying to fill in the mysterious past of M. de Dents – oh, there is great tragedy there, for M. de Dents is not only fleeing the Mlle de Hors and the bastard child they had conceived during a night of ill-advised and illusory passion, but also from himself, and his strange, crippling addiction to wheels of brie and its imminent threats upon his delicate figure.

 Then Lesgles, of all people, seems to pop up from nowhere at all, greeting M. de Dents as a friend before catching sight of Grantaire and dragging the handsome monsieur over, introducing him with an Occitan mouthful of a name which sounds like Angel-something or other, and Grantaire bursts out laughing.



Farouche

Work Text:

"…and for women, responsibility over the domestic sphere, virtuous motherhood, the great task of rearing the next generation and instructing them in principles and in love for their country."
Combeferre gazed pensively at his desk. As always when debating with Enjolras, he needed time to gather his thoughts and structure them to withstand the onslaught of Enjolras’ inexorable logic. “I don’t deny it’s a venerable role,” he said slowly, “but must that be the only way to organize the family? You would not doom a citizen to be a slave, a master, or a king by accident of birth. Why would you doom men and women to the roles you’ve set out for them by a different accident of birth? Is it not an unjust restriction upon those whose aptitudes and… predilections lie elsewhere?”
At the word ‘predilections,’ Enjolras caught his eye, startled. Combeferre held his gaze. With neither of them willing to turn away, the look went on far longer than was comfortable, until finally Enjolras lowered his eyes and said harshly, “You advocate total liberty of love. But there must be structure. If you could see the anarchy your liberty would unleash, you would not be able to approve of all the forms it would take.”
With the gentleness of a man ready to pull away at any second, Combeferre laid a hand on Enjolras’ cheek and tilted his chin up. There was something wild and barely suppressed in his friend’s eyes. “Wouldn’t I?” he said, and leaned in to kiss Enjolras.
Enjolras sprang back like a spooked animal before their lips could touch. “Don’t mock me,” he spat.
"I wasn’t." Combeferre held his hands up, trying to pacify his friend. "Enjolras, I swear to you, I was in earnest."
Enjolras eyed him warily. “You tried to kiss me.”
Combeferre felt shame wash over him in a burning wave. “I thought you wanted it too—”
"Wanted what? What do you want, Combeferre?"
"To—love you. As more than simply a friend."
"As what, then? Did you think, because you’d guessed at my predilections, that I’d let you make me your mistress?”
"It’s not like that!" cried Combeferre, his face twisting in frustration. "I mean, yes, I’ve desired you, but… never without respect. A partnership of equals. Just like we’ve always been. I swear."
Enjolras listened to Combeferre stammer and grasp for words until he gave up and stopped talking. “I apologize,” Enjolras said finally. “That was an assumption unworthy of you, my friend. But I don’t want to be your wife any more than I want to be your mistress.”
Combeferre looked up at Enjolras, open-mouthed—and then he really looked at him, because he had never seen Enjolras like this before. Tightly coiled, almost vibrating with it, his eyes dark and fixed unswervingly on Combeferre, body half turned away but leaning towards him, he looked equally likely to hit Combeferre, to bolt from the room, or to grab him and kiss him breathless. Half mistrustful stray cat, half hungry lion. Equally feral in either case, and Combeferre realized with a shiver that he didn’t have it in him to be the one to tame him. He recoiled before the prospect of teaching Enjolras the love of lovers, the love that takes and possesses. Enjolras, magnificent and untouched, was not his to have or to hold. He would make a dangerous lover for the man who dared try.
The realization hit him at the same time as a different thought—a strand of their argument, the offended pride in Enjolras’ posture—slotted together in his mind. “Why my wife?” he said with a wry half-smile. “I could just as easily have been asking you to be my husband.”
"I wouldn’t do that to you," said Enjolras fiercely. "Any more than I’d let you do that to me."
Combeferre stood up. Enjolras sprang backward a step, but didn’t take his eyes off Combeferre for an instant as he crossed the room and retrieved his coat and bookbag. “I understand,” said Combeferre in as mild a voice as he could manage. “I won’t bring it up again. I hope we can continue on as friends after this. But, Enjolras, just one question…”
"Yes?"
"If this venerable role of wife you’ve sketched out is such an insult to you, why would you assign it to half your fellow-creatures? Is that not the argument of tyrants?"
Enjolras opened his mouth, then closed it, pensive, at a loss for words for the first time that evening. Without waiting for him to think up a response, Combeferre jammed his hat on his head and departed.


i love you, but do you have legbones? combeferre/enjolras

 Enjolras/Combeferre, AU where supernatural creatures (werewolves, fairies, merfolk - take your pick) are real

“Sometimes I doubt your commitment to Les Amis de la Mer,” Enjolras says with an annoyed twitch of his tail. Combeferre presses a kiss against Enjolras’s gills and slides his hand down Enjolras’s pelvis, trying to feel for vestigial legbones. “I have no idea what you mean,” Combeferre replie
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