combeferres-mothematics

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Update :)

I think I may need someone to yell at me to go write, because the writing is NOT happening

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For some reason as a like 5 or 6 year old I got one of those dolls that can pee and I remember being really frustrated that the pee went straight through it and there was no transformation of fluids involved, so I decided to make blueprints for dolls that had an actual digestive system & organs & all that. I was also a fan of Star Wars at the time so this resulted in my mom finding a notebook full of naked Star Wars characters (Yoda & his penis included) that I got in huge trouble for.

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I think I may need someone to yell at me to go write, because the writing is NOT happening

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I saw les mis again 🥲

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@simplyirenic replied to your post: @robertawickham replied to your post: …

may i suggest bahorel staging intensely dramatic rescues for adoption purposes

‘wow thanks that snail had death in its eyes, if snails have eyes’

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CHARACTER ASK GAME!!! 💫

Send a character + one or more of these question IN THE INBOX. Don't reply on the post!

1. Why do you like or dislike this character?

2. Favorite canon thing about this character?

3. Least favorite canon thing about this character?

4. If you could put this character in any other media, be it a book, a movie, anything, what would you put them in?

5. What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them?

6. What's something you have in common with this character?

7. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you like?

8. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you despise?

9. Could you be roommates with this character?

10. Could you be best friends with this character?

11. Would you date this character?

12. What's a headcanon you have for this character?

13. What's an emoji, an emoticon and/or any symbol that reminds you of this character or you think the character would use a lot?

14. Assign a fashion aesthetic to this character.

15. What's your favorite ship for this character? (Doesn't matter if it's canon or not.)

16. What's your least favorite ship for this character?

17. What's a ship for this character you don't hate but it's not your favorite that you're fine with?

18. How about a relationship they have in canon with another character that you admire?

19. How about a relationship they have in canon that you don't like?

20. Which other character is the ideal best friend for this character, the amount of screentime they share doesn't matter?

21. If you're a fic writer and have written for this character, what's your favorite thing to do when you're writing for this character? What's something you don't like?

22. If you're a fic reader, what's something you like in fics when it comes to ths character? Something you don't like?

23. Favorite picture of this character?

24. What other character from another fandom of yours that reminds you of them?

25. What was your first impression of this character? How about now?

26. What's something the character has done you can't get over? Be it something funny, bad, good, serious, whatever?

27. What is a color or colors that you think of when you think of this character, be it their canon color(s) or not?

28. If you could have this character meet another in another media, who would you have them meet?

29. Could you live as this character, would you? If not, what would you change so that you could?

30. FREEBIE QUESTION!!

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Oh goodie, you're here! I was lost, actually.

You see, I've wondered this path so meticulously that I understand each slant and split and curves of these blades of grass. The path knows me as much I know it. The pressed grass knows not to perk up when they feel my little feet stomp on the mud ahead of it.

I come here to collect the water; a task handed to me like a slap on the bum. I have to carry a large bucket half my size and drag it to the stream of water.

You see behind you? That's that stream over there.

They say the trickling of the waters calm you, but I've stayed with the flow and nothing really lifts the anxiety. All I can think about is the punishment I'll receive if I don't come back in time.

I'm always so slow with the bucket, and I panic in my steps. Water spills on nature below, and my anxious stomping makes sure they're not fed by the nutrition of the water.

The gaps in the grass used to be smaller, I remember. That's how I can tell that I got bigger.

Not so big like the other girls, but not small as I used to be. Maybe if I go back far enough I was small enough to be held.

It doesn't matter about what I dream or who I hope will return. I sense a longing mixed with long forgot-ness. I have no mother, no father, no one who's blood related to me. I only have promise and loyalty.

I rebel in song and I sweep in whimpers. They say my chirps are curses, but sometimes I don't even realise I'm making a noise.

Good sir, do you feel what I feel currently? I feel like we have a connection and I can trust your hand holding the bucket.

As I've talked you've done nothing but listen to my ramblings. So far, it was just one lady in a dream and the trees of the forest who would ever listen to me.

Monsieur, is the bucket not tiring? Has my voices not yet worn you down, even a bit?

Is it too early to say that I feel as though I've known you my entire life? Quite silly, isn't it? To be so attached to someone I've never met. I feel a tube from my belly button was connected to you in some way.

I don't think I'm normal, and I don't think I'll ever be normal. Will you accept me, no matter what? You promise me, monsieur, that you'll be my papa and my mama, but I may be your daughter and your son. I'll pick my berries and hunt some rabbits to eat. Do I scare you with my unfazed attitudes to blood and small bone breaks?

I sometimes wonder where in my life everything went wrong. I vaguely have the sense of having arms wrapped around me. I played far too long and when I turned around I saw the vast nothingness.

I don't think I was ever allowed to be happy by the world. Abandonment is all I know, and attachments easily made. I'm foolish and I follow any nudge towards one way.

So tell me Monsieur, do you consider whisking me away? I wish for a castle on a cloud, and an angel to guard it. I wish for a queen I can sit on the lap of. I wish for my voice to tweet like a free bird.

So, are you truly my papa, and should I trust you with all my heart? Although I'm afraid it's too late because I already accepted that I am your child.

You smile yet your eyes are sad, and I know that look very well. You give me happiness but I feel like sadness is what makes you whole.

Good sir, you've come to rescue me, yet I fear it looks like I must rescue you as well.

My name is Cosette... Not-Thénardier. It's good that I finally met you after all that waiting, Monsieur...? Ah, Monsieur Papa, I hear.

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🍓 🍌 🍈 for the fruit ask game!! :D

🍓 What’s a fic you’ve written you feel is underrated?

I've been fortunate enough to have friends reading all my fics so really, all of them have been quite loved <33 my fics that are "lower-rated" are all my old ones before my writing improved anyways, so I don't feel like reccing them 😔 so I shall go with a fic that I was quite proud in finishing, with scenes that I was proud of writing!

Which is none other than the Dracula AU :p

🍌 In your opinion, what’s the funniest joke/reference/pun you’ve made in a fic?

I don't think I'm a very funny writer (even though I've written too many silly fics), but How Marius Won the Hand is probably the most fun I've had writing, likely because most of it was from Marius' POV and Marius is very silly in general. This was a line I loved:

“I was not that tense,” Marius insisted. “Oh Marius,” Cosette looked at him in pity. “You drank your soup with a fork.” “It was really quite impressive,” Courfeyrac patted his knee. “You must teach me how to do that someday.”

However, due to recency bias, I think Combeferre Gets TWO Boyfriends is probably my funniest, probably because I didn't give much of a shit about worldbuilding, realism, etc. and just had fun writing Combeferre accidentally rizzing up two boyfriends 😌 my personal favourite line is:

“You are quite fascinating yourself,” Grantaire replied. “And your friend, quite beautiful.” That prompted Combeferre to turn and check on Enjolras. He was still seated on the ground, though it seemed that he had regained his wits, staring at them incredulously. “He is, isn’t he?” Combeferre smiled. “I would like to eat him,” pleaded Grantaire.

Grantaire's grand act of love/devotion being to just eat the person is such a funny concept to me. Gets all warm and fuzzy inside then he goes CHOMP.

🍈 Who’s your blorbo and what are some of your favorite headcanons/ideas about them that repeatedly show up in your fics? Free pass to rant about blorbo opinions.

Another ask had the same question which is good, bc I have two (2) LM blorbos >:) this one shall be dedicated to Cosette!

I always like to have Cosette be a big bug lover in every story/fic/AU I have 🙂‍↕️ canonically she already plays with bugs alot as a kid (albeit by cutting their heads off…) and when she begins tending to the garden when she's older, surely she'd have interacted with them too! (plus that whole Bug Houses thing in the convent…). So I have her keep a variety of bug pets over the years, from caterpillars and worms, to madagascar hissing cockroaches and tarantulas.

She named the first insect she kept (a caterpillar that turned into a butterfly!) Catherine. Then the second insect Catherine as well (she was a child, okay ;-;). Eventually it became a running gag that all her pets are to be named Catherine the Third, Fourth, Fifth etc. In Teacher AU, her tarantula is named Catherine IV!

Valjean always likes the insects bc I'm sure he too has had experience dealing and interacting with bugs. Fantine finds them cute, wants to make little accessories for them all. Combeferre, Joly, Bahorel, and Prouvaire likes to see them: Ferre and Joly out of scientific curiosity, Bahorel because he's always been a fan of the grotesque, and Prouvaire because he wants to see if one could walk a tarantula like a dog.

Everyone else is quite neutral about them, apart from Enjolras, who always pales a little every time Cosette introduces a new pet. Once, a moth flew out of its enclosure and all that was left of Enjolras was a dust cloud in his place.

Thank you for the ask Emile!! :D

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Les Mis Shipping Showdown: Final

REMINDER THAT THERE IS NO POLL STEALING IN THIS ROUND.

e/r art by @non-tmercy

eposette art by @piierogis

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Les Mis Shipping Showdown: Third Place Playoff

REMINDER THAT THERE IS NO POLL STEALING IN THIS ROUND.

enjolferre art by @oilan

jbm art by @pilferingapples

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Tropes!

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ask me some questions about everyone's favorite 1400-page-long french novel (aka les misérables)

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Trope fic: Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and accidental baby acquisition. :D

(Um, I cheated, and the baby that Combeferre accidentally acquired is a de-aged Courfeyrac WHOOPS TWO TROPES IN ONE)

“Well, let’s see now,” Combeferre said, rubbing his hands together. “Perhaps only your body has regressed and not your mind. If you can understand me, cease crying this instant.”

Courfeyrac continued to wail. He kicked his chubby legs wildly, gripped his fingers into tiny fists and pounded them against the blanket he was wrapped in. His face was scrunched and red.

“Yes, alright then,” Combeferre said. “You will continue to pout and throw a fit, just as you always do.” But Courfeyrac’s cries were sending a pang through Combeferre’s heart. Courfeyrac had always had a tendency toward the dramatic, but now that his dramatics were crammed into such a small body, his minor fits seemed very large indeed. Combeferre sympathized. Having your entire adult being reduced to infancy without any warning or explanation would made Combeferre sulky, as well.

“Are you hungry?” Combeferre asked. 

Courfeyrac wailed.

With a sigh, Combeferre lowered himself next to the couch, where Courfeyrac was bundled, and offered his finger. Courfeyrac latched onto it, his fingers squeezing Combeferre’s tightly, and his cries slowed to soft whimpers, and then, adorably, hiccups. Courfeyrac peeled his eyes open, which were the same familiar green. His curls were familiar, too, thinner but still as unruly. His cheeks were plump and rosy.

Combeferre was a little bit in love.

“Would you like to be held?”

The minute Combeferre began reaching for him, Courfeyrac lifted his arms and started kicking his legs again, squirming and murmuring and smiling. Combeferre smiled in return and lifted Courfeyrac into his arms, where Courfeyrac immediately began burrowing into his chest, grabbing handfuls of his shirt and mumbling nonsense. As soon as he got comfortable, he let out a small sigh, and another hiccup.

“I should’ve known a cuddle was all you wanted,” Combeferre said. He began singing “La Marseillaise” very softly, and Courfeyrac squealed with delight.

“You will mock me endlessly for this when you are yourself again,” Combeferre said.

Courfeyrac giggled, and hiccuped.

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tumblrin' for posterity, and also because this was beautiful

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Lesgle placed an empty wine-bottle on the counter.  He had cleaned it several times over, but it was indisputably a wine-bottle, and quite inappropriate.  He and the pharmacist looked at it sorrowfully.  Even the other customer in the shop glanced over from his contemplation of ointments and then glanced away.

“How much are your leeches?"  The pharmacist named his price and Lesgle thought—even more sorrowfully—of his shrinking purse.  He had had three months’ rent two weeks ago.  Half was already gone.  "Are they really so expensive?”

“These are very good leeches.  Medicinal leeches.”

"At that price I could just go wading in a pond—"  It was a terrible thing to say.  Lesgle felt his fellow-customer’s eyes on his back, as well as the forcible disapproval of the pharmacist. 

"Monsieur may do as he likes, naturally."  The man handed Lesgle his wine-bottle.  Lesgle tried to nudge it back onto the counter.  "I only meant that—that—”

“Monsieur meant perhaps that he would travel to Camargue and seek out a respectable leech-farm from amongst the muddy frauds who would sell him horse-leeches painted yellow, hmm?  Horse-leeches, not medicinal leeches.  The horse-leech is a terrible creature, Monsieur.  A cannibal.  This, this is the Camargue leech.  Docile, gentle.  Sociable.”

“They look like a mix of Camargue and Landes leeches to me."  And that would be Lesgle’s fellow-customer.  He suppressed a glare at the officious interloper, who had brought out a pair of spectacles to examine the leech-jar.  "This little gentleman surely came from Landes.  See how green he is?  With the two black stripes, that’s entirely characteristic.  And that one’s Hungarian, with that brick-red speckling.  How much did you say they were, again?  Mm, it is a bit steep, especially for a mix, I have to wonder how long those Hungarian leeches were on the road…suppose one were to purchase them by the dozen, what would you take off?”

"I don’t want a dozen—"  But haggling had begun, and Lesgle caught on quickly enough.  Soon he and the other man were the owners of two dozen leeches, diverse leeches from various corners of Europe, guaranteed to be hungry and healthy and in a state of satisfactory molt.  The pharmacist had not liked to put them in Lesgle’s shabby old wine-bottle.  The pharmacist had done it anyway, in receipt of a significant portion of Lesgle’s rent money, combined with the resources of his unexpected leeching ally. 

Outside, Lesgle tucked the bottle under his arm.  “They’re for a friend.  You probably guessed that.  I am not, myself, in the leech field; I toil not with leeches and neither do I…er, spin them..  —I’m Lègle, lately from Meaux, and very pleased to meet you, sir.  My friend didn’t think to tell me how much a half-dozen leeches would run to.  He’s—ah—an unworldly sort.”

If the comment struck his new companion as odd, it didn’t show in his face: in fact, he seemed not to have heard.  His brow was furrowed, in contrast to a slow sleepy smile that began to spread.  “Lègle, lately from Meaux.  L’Aigle de Meaux.  Tell me, friend, do they ever call you Bossuet?”

An answering grin nearly split Lesgle’s face.  “Friend,” he said, “They do not.  And I have forever been hoping that they would.”

——

And so Lesgle returned to his apartment and his ghost not with leeches but with a promise of leeches.  The medical student had sworn most soberly to bring Lesgle’s portion over that evening, in a more suitable container than the wine-bottle.  Lesgle hadn’t had the heart to explain to him that these leeches were destined for the afterlife.  (The heart or the nerve; they really didn’t know one another well enough for a story that started with “my friend’s mistress’ room,” went on with “is haunted by the ghost of her former downstairs neighbor,” and finished “who is convinced that he requires ghostly leeching.”  For one thing, Lesgle himself was not wholly convinced of the existence of ghosts.  His current situation might be some sort of singular event, a case of his own peculiar luck; there might not be any other ghosts.  For another thing, starting the story would just provoke more questions.  Questions like “Why are you living in your friend’s mistress’ room,” and “why is the ghost haunting your friend’s mistress’ room instead of his own,” and “can leeches even become ghosts?”  Lesgle had spent more time today pondering the existence of the leechly soul than he had thought possible.)

The promise of leeches was barely enough to keep up Joly’s spirits.  (Spirits, ha.  Lesgle had become almost painfully sensitive to the word in the last two weeks.)  The ghost seemed to be haunting Lesgle’s shaving-mirror: it rattled.  He was a fretful ghost.  He was a fretful ghost; he was a ghost that apologetically left cold drafts in his corner of the bed; he was a ghost that started unexpected conversations at odd hours; he was a ghost of a uniquely sweet disposition.  An account of the leech-haggling got him laughing again.   As Lesgle perfected his impression of the pharmacist’s long face, it struck him with a pang that he wished he could see his ghost.

"The best of it is,” Joly was saying, in a breathless chuckle, “the best of it is that I don’t think it matters in the slightest, the Camargue leech and the Landes leech are—” 

Footsteps and a knock interrupted him.  Lesgle signaled silence, and went to let in the guest.  When he opened the door three things happened in rapid succession: a disembodied voice squeaked “Combeferre!”, a small whirlwind of loose papers and plaster dust spun up from a corner of the room and launched at the new arrival, and the new arrival dropped very neatly into a heap on the floor.  His earthenware jar tumbled out of his hands and rolled into the fire.

As he loosened Combeferre’s cravat and did other things that seemed correct in a case of fainting, Lesgle wondered if he had been spared the unpleasantness of ushering half a dozen leeches to their next life.

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“Combeferre!”