Rise Up, Oh Heart, For There is Another Battle to Win

WHEN YOU SEE THIS, SHARE 3 RANDOM LINES FROM A WIP

skymurdock:

poplitealqueen:

amaronith:

onemuseleft:

“Funny. I don’t recall that I was allowed to do much talking about it at all.” Tony met his gaze briefly, mouth twisted in an unhappy frown, angry-looking dark circles under his eyes. His eyes were dull and tired and Steve fought back the urge to wince. He’d never wanted to hurt Tony, that had never been the plan, but they’d been together for three years and things could only be so painless after that much time.

“Yes, I’m sure. I may be a jerk, but it’s not because I don’t listen.” It was because his superhero secret identity caused him to bail on plans at a bank robbery’s notice and gave him a predisposition to what could be called compulsive lying, but hey.

Sue gave Peter an amused look, but gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “At least you’re self-aware.”

He wrapped his arms around Bilbo and hugged him, and he thought that if he didn’t hug anyone else apart from the hobbit ever again, it would not be a terrible thing. Hugging Bilbo was like coming home. Thorin had lost too many homes; he wanted to keep this one till the end of days.

“How is he, anyway?” says Obi-wan.

“Dude, can’t you use the Force to check?” says Darcy. “Or, you know, you could just ask him.”

“The Force does not work that way,” says Obi-wan, depositing her cup of coffee in front of her with a sniff.

Grantaire lets out a slow breath and scrubs his hands back through his hair, feeling tangled curls catch at his fingers and yank at his scalp. “Okay.  I’m going to go take a shower until I feel less like I’m going to have a panic attack.  Help yourself to coffee or whatever’s in the fridge.”

“Give me your phone,” Éponine says, and doesn’t move from where she’s sitting in a ball on the floor.  Instead she holds out her hand, palm up, with a stern arch to her eyebrows—like she’s reclaiming something that’s already hers rather than blatantly commandeering Grantaire’s personal property.

He hands over the phone. 

(Source: post-and-out)

Anonymous asked: prompt: B, ship: E/R. Also I am reading things we lost in the fire and it's wonderful! Thank you for sharing!

2: At my worst, I worry you’ll realize you deserve better.  At my best, I worry you won’t. (I’ve never been better.)  

Modern AU motherfuckers. Behold, I have written fluff.  And thank you so much, I’m so glad you’re liking ‘things we lost in the fire,’ <3

Grantaire tugged at the cuff of his blazer, trying to resist the urge to pick at his outfit with nervous fingers.  Eponine and Bahorel had selected it for him, and although Bahorel wasn’t particularly menacing, Eponine had a key to Grantaire’s apartment, a Sharpie, a switchblade, and even odds on using either one—he wasn’t in a rush to disobey her. So, nice jeans, a graphic t-shirt, and a blazer it was.  It didn’t mask the fact that he still looked semi-exhausted, but Cosette had informed him, in her sweetest and most anxiety-reducing tone, that as long as he wore a thin layer of stubble, he looked much more the lovelorn artist than the over-caffeinated grad student.

He was pretty sure she’d only said it to make him stop hyperventilating, but it was a nice sentiment.

“R!” Enjolras shouted from down the hall.  “You’re going to be late!”

“Fashionably late is a thing that exists, Apollo,” Grantaire said, giving one more nervous tug to the blazer before he stepped away from the mirror.  “How do I look?” he asked Enjolras, holding out his arms and trying to look Enjolras in the eye instead of letting his gaze wander to a safe corner of the ceiling.  “Ridiculous?”

“Shut up, you look incredible,” Enjolras said.  “And fashionably late may be a thing that exists, but not when you’re going to your own thing.”

“Sure it is,” Grantaire said, dragging his eyes away from the ceiling with difficulty and flicking a glance at Enjolras.  “You really don’t have to come, it’s not a big deal.”

Enjolras shot him a Look and knocked one foot against the floor, not quite a stomp, but enough to make the sole of his shot thud loudly as he plucked pointedly at the lapel of his red coat.  “It’s your first gallery opening.  If you think I’m not going, you have another one coming.”

“It’s not really, Cosette’s father–”

“Don’t care!” Enjolras interrupted, sharp and bright and grinning.  He stepped over and pressed a kiss to the corner of Grantaire’s mouth.  “R, love, it’s going to be fine,” he murmured, taking Grantaire’s hand.  “You didn’t get this because Valjean knows the gallery owner, you got this because your paintings are incredible, and you’re going to go let a bunch of people with a lot of money tell you so.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire breathed, and offered Enjolras a shaky smile.  “I don’t deserve you.”

“I strongly disagree.”

“I know. I hope you never realize you’re wrong,” Grantaire said, and his smile was more earnest this time.

“Are you ready?”

“Never better, Apollo,” Grantaire said, breathless, and let Enjolras steer him out the door.

piggybunny12 asked: EXR--Point of No Return from Phantom...or really anything from Phantom. I saw it last night and all the sudden it's sophomore year of high school again for me...

Not gonna lie, baby, I have not…actually seen Phantom of the Opera, but I googled the song and Tried. Yeah, yeah, I’m a heathen, I know. I am Trying.  And this.  Oh god. I make SUCH a rule about not writing smut except on specific request, so I just…stopped before it progressed to actual sex.  But rest assured that’s where this goes, and if you’re interested I’m glad to write it.

“Combeferre, make sure our weapons are prepared,” Enjolras was saying, the sort of rapid-fire rattle that commanded effortless attention.  He’d worked his way through every present member of Les Amis and then some by now, even little Gavroche getting instructions as they readied themselves for the next day’s march.  That just left…  “And where the hell is Grantaire?”

“Madame Houchloupe commandeered him as waitstaff,” Courfeyrac said with a wicked grin.

“What?”

“He means that she asked him to fetch more wine from the cellar, it’s crowded tonight,” Combeferre translated with a sigh.  “He’s probably still down there.”

“We are—this is not the moment for his antics,” Enjolras snapped, a scowl writing itself deeply into his features.  

“He’s been gone barely ten minutes,” Joly said, waving a hand.  “If you’re so thrice-blasted worried, go find him yourself.”

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lathori asked: Babe. THE smut fic. You know the one. E x R, what we've been talking about. /Please/ write it? /Please/ <3 E

Aaaaand here we go with the smut.  I don’t write smut much, mostly just on request.  So I dunno how this came out.  But it’s definitely smut.  NSFW. Possibly NSF-Anywhere.  Also it like…cold opens to sex, so.  There is no plot here.

Grantaire tugged at the long ends of the cord, tightening the coil winding about the outside.  It scraped along the taut length stretching to the headboard, a faint but audible sound, and he glanced down.

“Too tight?” he asked quietly, letting his fingers trail down to slip into the gap between Enjolras’ wrist and the five loops of white cotton binding him to the bed.  He could still fit two fingers comfortably beside Enjolras’ delicate wrist, and the touch made Enjolras’ eyes flicker open.  The usually bright honey color was a little hazy, distracted.  “Mon ange,” Grantaire prompted.

“You’re fine,” Enjolras said, blinking until his gaze was clearer.  Grantaire nodded and finished tucking the loose ends away until the knot was secure. He ducked, pressed a kiss to the long, deft fingers, and saw Enjolras close his eyes again.

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Anonymous asked: Prompt: les amis princess protection program au

*Aaron Burr voice*  Sure!  So it took me a long-ass time to write this because I saw PPP like once, like ten years ago, and I just now had the time to google it and brush up.  As payment for the delay, it’s SEVEN PAGES.  Also I wrote this at two in the morning and I haven’t looked over it since, so…  I wandered off from the movie plot.  Sorry.

• Prince Gabriel Alexandrè Enjolras Apollinaire—he usually opts out of the lengthy full name for just ‘Enjolras’, to the ongoing dismay of his entire staff—is literally getting crowned as king of the small country Rive Lune when Inquisiteur Javert, the right-hand man of the neighboring Rive Astre, comes crashing through the door.  Turns out being extremely determined to transform a hundred-year monarchy into a democracy makes the local dictators edgy.  Despite his best efforts to the contrary, Enjolras is (quite literally) hauled away by Monsieur Valjean, a member of the Prince Protection Program.  His mother and the queen of Rive Lune, Her Royal Majesty Juliette Ameliè Lamarque Apollinaire, is not so lucky.

• Enjolras puts up a very legitimate fight against being ‘packed off like so much spare luggage,’ as he puts it in his lengthy tirade. The PPP has never had to handle such an…opinionated prince—normally, they’re so shocky from an attempt on their life that they don’t question much.  Enjolras is something else.  He spins such a compelling speech about personal responsibility and care of the people and my country that, honestly?  They almost go for it.  And then Valjean clears his throat and politely reminds everyone of the situation, and Enjolras is packed off to America without further ado (and over his continuting protests) because Valjean has that effect on people.

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Anonymous asked: oooooh, i would love a exr shortie where e has to teach r how to dance and it's very frustrating and they feel thINGS, please?

*hides face* Oh my God, it’s been like a MONTH, I am so sorry, but HERE.  There is dancing and feelings and kissing and Enjolras actually having a social life because Courfeyrac forces him to.  Also, I seem to have a tendency to write ‘getting their shit together’ ficlets so if you want…not that, feel free to ask.  And if you want the reverse of this where Grantaire teaches Enjolras to dance, it is here.

Enjolras goes to clubs.  It’s not especially common knowledge, because he’s usually too busy, but whenever Courfeyrac feels like it’s necessary, he’ll drag Enjolras out to a nightclub, pour a few shots into him, and turn him loose for a few hours with instructions to not think too much.  This time, it’s a group outing, all of Les Amis laughing and tactile with alcohol, hands on arms and cheeks flushed with the triumph of their latest protest.  

Joly, giggly with his second rum and coke, is the one to start the dancing, pushing Musichetta and Bousset onto the dance floor ahead of him.  The three of them fit together like puzzle pieces, Musichetta’s petite body pressed back against Joly’s chest and Bousset’s broad shoulders behind the pair of them.  They’ve clearly done this before, because Bousset and Musichetta know just how to move so that Joly can dance without aggravating his limp.  It’s fluid and sensual, Musichetta’s head tipped back on Joly’s shoulder and her smile dazzling up at her boys, and Enjolras feels the brief pause around him, the rest of them caught up in the trio’s giddy joy.

“Aw, they’re cute,” Cosette says, and Éponine smirks, finishes her scotch, and pinches Marius hard in the side.  He yelps and flails—not a graceful man at the best of times, and less so with alcohol—but gets the hint, shyly offering his hand to Cosette and letting her tug him onto the floor.  Éponine is still snickering when she darts out herself, bouncing and coiling like a ribbon in the dim club lights.

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ghostdog401 asked: What about a Star Trek AU, but with Les Mis characters

Aaaaaay, hell yeah, I fucking live for Star Trek AU’s.

All right, so I’m going to take this to mean that one AU where the fair ship Revolution is out on her five-year mission under the command of Captain Lamarque, a steely-eyed woman with a reputation for even-handed care of her crew whether they support her or not.  Her first officer, Commander Enjolras is a communications specialist, beyond his command training, and everyone who knew him before his commission jokes that he chose it because he always wore bright red anyway.  Those jokes are mostly made by his two closest friends from the Academy, both of whom went out of their way to get assigned to the same ship—Combeferre, the youngest out of the three doctors on board (and half-Betazoid who will cut you if you ask about his species’ “sensuous nature”), and Courfeyrac, the ship’s counselor (technically a non-com, but still part of the crew).  

A quick overview of the crew of the Revolution:

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Anonymous asked: ♫ Enjolras/Grantaire

words-writ-in-starlight:

RIGHT, so I got Third Eye by Florence + the Machine (also I super love this meme and more people should do it.)  I ain’t even a little sorry.  Canon era, motherfuckers, because I can.

Grantaire was arguing with him again.  Most of Enjolras’ mind was occupied with ripping down the other man’s case, almost enjoying the familiar pattern, but that quiet part at the base of his skull, the part that had been getting louder of late, was distracted.  It was discomfiting and foreign, as if he no longer quite knew himself.  It did little to inhibit his argument—they were second nature by now, he could spare that scrap of attention—but he was bothered by its persistence.  Just when Enjolras believed he had shaken off the strange abstraction, Grantaire would tip his head back and laugh at something Joly had said, his wild curls falling back from the line of his throat, and it would return with a vengeance.

He’s brilliant, the quiet voice noted now.  It was true, something Enjolras had noticed before. For all that he dulled its edge with wine and other, stronger spirits, Grantaire’s mind was as keen as the edge of broken glass, quick and incisive, and he soaked up information as effortlessly as he did liquor.  Grantaire claimed to know nothing—nothing but love and liberty, he had said—but he could hold his ground against Enjolras, and quote Greek and Roman writings without so much as a pause to recall. He spoke rapidly, as if the thoughts piled up behind his tongue and pressed to be first through his lips, and was prone to winding, tangential thinking, but his points were good and clear and glittering.

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Reblog for the daytime crowd.

Anonymous asked: ♫ Enjolras/Grantaire

RIGHT, so I got Third Eye by Florence + the Machine (also I super love this meme and more people should do it.)  I ain’t even a little sorry.  Canon era, motherfuckers, because I can.

Grantaire was arguing with him again.  Most of Enjolras’ mind was occupied with ripping down the other man’s case, almost enjoying the familiar pattern, but that quiet part at the base of his skull, the part that had been getting louder of late, was distracted.  It was discomfiting and foreign, as if he no longer quite knew himself.  It did little to inhibit his argument—they were second nature by now, he could spare that scrap of attention—but he was bothered by its persistence.  Just when Enjolras believed he had shaken off the strange abstraction, Grantaire would tip his head back and laugh at something Joly had said, his wild curls falling back from the line of his throat, and it would return with a vengeance.

He’s brilliant, the quiet voice noted now.  It was true, something Enjolras had noticed before. For all that he dulled its edge with wine and other, stronger spirits, Grantaire’s mind was as keen as the edge of broken glass, quick and incisive, and he soaked up information as effortlessly as he did liquor.  Grantaire claimed to know nothing—nothing but love and liberty, he had said—but he could hold his ground against Enjolras, and quote Greek and Roman writings without so much as a pause to recall. He spoke rapidly, as if the thoughts piled up behind his tongue and pressed to be first through his lips, and was prone to winding, tangential thinking, but his points were good and clear and glittering.

Keep reading