#Ollie writes

[olliewrites-stuff]

In Which You Play Orpheus

In which you play Orpheus,

And you are broken-hearted and desolate.

The loss of your Eurydice for the

Second and final time

Carves your soul into

Mourning lyrics in a language

Only the bereft can decipher.

In which you stand there, frozen,

Mourning the first and only time

Turning towards your lover

Has ended in heart-break.

In which you play Orpheus,

But this time,

The Gods decide to make you

Suffer

Instead of ending you.

In which you are Orpheus and

You have just lost your Eurydice,

But also,

In which you have been granted

Immortality

Until reaching an age the Gods decide

Your existence on this plane

Without HER

Can cease.

In which you are newly-immortal,

And your immortality is certain -

And you refuse to disclose just how

You know it to be fact.

In which those pages of your book -

With the screaming and the

Crying and the

Desperate clutching,

Are stuck together never to be read aloud,

And that's how you prefer it to be.

In which you are Orpheus,

And you can't escape Her.

She whispers through the trees.

She cries desperately for you

In the thunderstorms.

The cheeky quirk of Her lip is

Reflected on other people’s faces …

And it HURTS.

By Gods,

It HURTS.

The absence in your life

And soul so profound that you

Cannot breathe.

In which you attend the group sessions,

Just like your friends suggested,

But the way in which the facilitator

Says Her name makes you

Clench your fists and

Refuse to make eye-contact with

Anyone.

This suffering is overwhelming,

But sharing it would be like

Sharing what little of Her

You have left, and -

You're not strong enough to let that go.

In which you lose control one day,

Throwing a chair across the room

When the soft-spoken woman

To your right,

Who is wearing her hair like She used to,

Speaks your name in Her timbre.

In which you become a cyclone,

A Category 5 descending on the home

You used to share,

Snatching up all of Her things and

Hurling them into a space

Never to be seen again.

Everything seems to pause as you

Come across a picture of

The two of you.

Everything gets deceivingly quiet

As the eye of Cyclone Orpheus

Overtakes you.

Your eyes dart from smiling eyes to

Lovestruck smile,

And all of a sudden,

The storm is back in action.

Smashing,

Crashing,

Banging,

Screaming,

Crying -

Your rage is

s u f f o c a t i n g

and

t e r r i f y i n g,

But FUCK

Does it feel good to cause damage,

Even though the chaos you can create

Is no match for the damage

She caused YOU, and -

...You've ripped the picture in half

And are suddenly human again,

Kneeling in the centre of your carnage

As you realise what you’ve done.

In which you quietly and reverently

Pack up the rest of Her belongings,

Vowing to actually attempt

Living

The rest of your life.

For Her if no-one else.

In which time passes and

You lose track of it;

Surviving one day becomes

Surviving two,

Then three,

And soon,

Years,

Decades - maybe even centuries -

Pass,

And it’s only after you catch yourself

Smiling as you think of the sweet

Grecian girl with the dazzling smile

You’ve bumped into a few times,

That you realise you’re not

Occupied with thoughts of

Your Eurydice.

In which you graze your shoulder as you

Scramble to where you’d left all of Her stuff

To collect dust.

Light floods the space as you scurry to

Surround yourself in Her presence again,

To prove you haven’t stopped

Thinking about Her,

That you haven’t given up on Her,

That you haven’t

f o r g o t t e n

Her.

"See? See!

I’ve still got that scarf you wore every year,

And that photo album from that one time...

And see, see?

Look at all the SHIT I have that

Proves I can’t live without you!"

You stop.

Breathe in and out deeply…

In which you play Orpheus,

And have lost your Eurydice.

In which you realise that between

Forcing yourself to be busy

So you didn’t have time to grieve,

And doing your best to live

As She would have wanted,

You had found a way to grieve.

To move on.

To live without her.

In which you no longer grieve,

But can still hear Her

Softly whispering through the trees.

You can hear Her in the thunderstorms.

You can see the cheeky quirk of Her lip

In people you’ve since befriended.

And you are okay.

The reminders bring back

Fond memories, now,

Reminding you of the time you DID

Get to spend with Her,

And the happiness you felt then

That you can recognise again now.

In which you play an immortal Orpheus who

Has lost his Eurydice,

And you realise She is gone,

But not forgotten.

© O.M.A

[snifflie-ollie]

THIS HAS BEEN IN MY DRAFTS FOR SO LONG (SINCE MAY???) HOLY SHIT

In Hiding

Two secret agents suddenly have to hide together. Tight spaces and itchy noses might make it difficult, though.

this is my first fic that ive been working on forEVER (i kept. um. getting distracted while writing...) sorry if there's errors!!

tags: sneezing while hiding, stifling, oc has the kink, failed holdbacks, inducing, allergies, i need to write them having sex now

Listening for the others outside, Audrey shifted slightly--as much as she could--to get a bit more comfortable in the space. Her and Robin were pressed up against each other suddenly. It was dark inside, only slightly illuminated by the cracks between the door and the wall, so she couldn't see Robin's facial expression inside the... was it a closet? a locker? She hadn't looked long enough to check, only rushing in as soon as she heard more voices. Whatever it was, it was way smaller than anticipated, and uncomfortable--she made a mental note to schedule an appointment with her chiropractor.

Of course it just had to be Robin she was stuck with. Pent up feelings toward them made for a very awkward position, as her struggle to remain professional began to crumble.

Suddenly, Audrey noticed a shift in Robin's breath, which she could feel on the base of her neck. It was sharper now, and she felt their body begin to tense up.

"When was the last time someone cleaned in here?" They whispered, soft enough that only Audrey could hear. "Shit, I have to sneeze. Can I muffle it into your shoulder?"

Fuck.

Audrey simply nodded, and Robin shifted to the suit fabric that she was wearing, hovering over it as their hitches grew.

Audrey could feel her heart pounding over every trembling breath. She wasn't paying any attention to the people outside anymore; how could she?

"Ha--haaahh..." Each hitch was a shake in their chest, just audible enough to pull Audrey in as the tension rose. She'd seen their nostrils flare the previous times, straight nose crinkling at the top. God, she wished she could see it now.

"hhHHXXSH--" they jerked, stifling into Audrey's shoulder, causing her to shudder.

Quietly sniffing, Robin pulled back for just a moment, giving a sniffle. "Fuck, sorry, I don't want to get your suit all gross."

"It's fine; I don't mind," Audrey muttered, attempting to hide her fluster. She really didn't mind.

"Shit, aahnother one--hh... hahh..."

She could feel their warm breath hitching against her again, quicker this time.

"HXXSHMF--"

This time they miscalculated, aiming into Audrey's neck instead, whose stiff outward appearance shattered as she melted in the moment.

"Audrey--"

She snapped back, trying to regain any sense of levelheadedness. "Hm?"

"Your... hhhair," they whispered into her ear, voice trembling, and Audrey realized in the faint illumination that her hair was now completely brushed up against their nose, some of it inside, tickling their already sensitive nostrils.

"Shit, let me--" she cut herself off, attempting to squirm around and move her hair out of the way. However, the moving just irritated the itch, and she realized that only a bit too late.

"Don't move, you'll ju... ah--HAH--H'ASHHXX!"

Robin just barely muffled in time into a now dizzy Audrey.

"What was that?" A voice boomed from outside, and the duo froze in place.

Sniffling, Robin scrunched up their face in the dark, something Audrey could now see as her vision adjusted.

She shook her head at them. Any noise now would give their position away and get them captured.

They nodded their head back at her--one they Audrey loved and hated about them. If Robin was going to sneeze, Robin was going to sneeze.

"Hhaahhh..." They began to hitch again, tilting their head back slightly. "HAhh-! Hhh..."

Audrey could see their nose trembling in the dark, their hands instinctively trying to reach up to it, so, without thinking, she took matters into her own hands and shoved a finger under their nose.

It was wet from the previous sneezes, and Robin flinched in enough surprise to distract their nose for the moment being.

Eventually, they could hear the sound of chairs shifting and people walking out as one of the voices grumbled about the end of a meeting.

After a few minutes of painstaking silence, they opened the locker to find the room empty again, and both sighed in relief.

"Okay, we've got the files, lets get the fuck out of here," Audrey commanded, looking over at Robin, who had a rolled up tissue shoved up their red nose with a dazed look. "What are you doing?!"

"I d,diidn't--hah--get the laaahsst sneeze out," they hitchily replied.

Crossing her arms, Audrey continued to stare, pretending to be unammused.

They sniffled, taking out the tissue. "Fuck, I can't get it."

Audrey rolled her eyes. "Here, let me do it."

Robin complied, and Audrey rolled up another end of the tissue and placed it in their left nostil, rubbing up and down the insides. She could see their fluster, but assumed it was simply from never having induced before.

"That reh, really tiiickles--"

"That's the point."

Now that they were in the light, this time, Audrey could see Robin's desperate scarlet nostrils flaring and trembling, begging for relief. She stuck the tissue further, circling the back of their nose.

"Ah, Audrey, I'm gonnahh--hAh--sneeh, eeze," they warned through hitched breaths.

Audrey didn't move, simply pushing in further until she hit a particually sensitive spot. "Shh, don't try to talk, just focus."

"Hhah... hh--hAH...!" They leaned their head back with closed, watery eyes, reaching up a hand out of instinct, though, it was futile; Audrey was in the way. Robin lurched forward, letting out their first unstifled wet sneeze in hours, and, unintentionally, all over Audrey.

"HhhHHAI'CHEW!"

Sniffing, they wiped their nose. "Fuck, that felt really good. I need to try that. You're great at that."

Audrey shrugged, but couldn't help but give a smirk. "I'm good at everything," she replied cockily.

With that out of the way, the two of them left. Both would think about the incident later that night, individually relieving the tension they'd had beforehand.

[stoportotouch]

Instead of a potential trade route to Asia, early exploration of the Northwestern Passages uncovers a passage to a completely undiscovered and also ostensibly scientifically impossible region of the world. The ‘New World’, as it is called, is seemingly completely uninhabited and seems uninhabitable but the discovery of its existence still causes a race to inhabit and possess it. Naturally, the British Navy place themselves at the forefront of this exploration, setting up not just the means to administrate the New World but the means to explore it. The New World is an attractive prospect to many officers and ordinary seamen alike as a place to set up ‘on their own’, as it were. In contrast to this, however, the Discovery Service aiming to map out more of it than just the corners of the land nearest to the New World side of the passage through struggles to find the men to even continue to justify itself to the Admiralty back home. It pays well, yes, but service out beyond the known edges of the New World is dangerous and the land and water themselves are strange.

and Here It Is! my submission to this year's @theterrorbigbang, with art by the wonderful @rohnoc! as you can tell i went mad with power and invented a setting!

[mail-posting]

Arcing sparks [OUTDATED! I've already rewritten it]

(Luca and Alva reunite in Oletus Manor. It goes... Worryingly.)

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The moments that lead to Alva's death were caused by a catastrophic misunderstanding.

Luca found his father's manuscripts the day before. Appalled by the thought Alva was stealing from him, he'd try to work on the invention that he and Alva shared several times without Alva's knowledge, to spite him.

And spite him it did. The two had an argument about it one day. Alva apparently had no idea what Luca meant by "robbing" his father's research, or "blocking" Luca from completing it. Luca simply left to do things away from him.

It was only that night, when Luca was caught working on the machine alone, that Alva knew what it was like to feel robbed. He yelled in anger that Luca was the one stealing, and he charged towards Luca determined to find out what the hell he thought he was doing.

Luca was very startled by this. Panicking, he hit Alva with the parts he was working on in a panic, only realising far too late that those parts were highly electrical. Alva was dead on contact. Luca was somehow spared by the deadliness of the current, only to be arrested the next morning.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

In truth, neither were attempting to steal anything at all. The revived Alva, after many nights spent contemplating the moments leading to his demise, began to wonder if that was the conclusion he should come to.

Luca thought much differently, but not in the way you might imagine.

Prison had taken a harsh toll on Luca's sanity while he was there. Hated by everyone less fortunate than him, and taunted by those who knew what he did, his memories of the events began to twist and warp.

A cacophony of head injuries and the other prisoners' harsh cries of "murderer!" started to make his judgement slip as his memory got more disjointed and fuzzy around the edges. If everyone said he was a murderer, then he had to be one. Simple as that.

Despite how simple it seemed, it was nowhere close to truth. In a mind drenched with guilt, a desperate accident turned into an attack in the heat of the moment. (Luca couldn't have been careless enough with his delicate machinery to hit someone with hundreds of volts on accident, right?)

A misunderstanding between potentially stolen ideas turned into uncertainty if those manuscripts were even his father's at all. (Why would Alva be so confused about what he meant if they were?)

A strong bond between geniuses that turned sour at the last moment turned into the smartest man in the world and his forgetful, impulsive, stupid apprentice. (After all, he can't have been good at all if he can't even remember what they did together properly. What did he do to deserve such a perfect man to mentor him?)

What once was an unfortunate sequence of events was now all his fault. And the guilt suffocated him.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

It was years before he and Alva would meet again, now within the halls of Oletus Manor. Alva could recognise the man in front of him as clear as day. But Luca could not do the same back. He barely even remembered his mentor's face. To him, this man was just the Hermit, as he introduced himself.

Something about the Hermit's words strangely calmed the Prisoner. It was like he recalled it from a distant memory, a life he could never come back to. But he couldn't recognise who it was from. The Hermit only gave a soft smile when Luca brought it up.

After a while, The Hermit was allowed into Luca's room. They were surprised to find the sheer amount of devices and gadgets strewn across wall floor and table. The Hermit offered help with Luca's mechanical problems, (since he clearly had a lot of them) with only one type of meagre compensation. To listen to him talk.

And Luca found it strangely easy to talk to this stranger, who felt soothingly familiar in the way they helped him. Almost like a father. Or a teacher. Or a... Mentor? He wasn't sure. But he kept talking, even if the stranger never said their name.

Alva wanted to know what Luca's side of the story was. That was his main goal, after all. But he didn't need it yet. It was enough to see his former apprentice ramble on about anything he wanted. Just so he could pretend things were still alright, for a while. He found himself smiling, several times. Luca smiled back.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

It was in those meetings that Alva began to prod. He would never force Luca to tell him what happened, but he asked. And Luca answered. Vaguely at first, but sometimes it'd spiral into a whole rant.

First the Hermit asked about prison, and Luca blabbered about how much he hated when fellow prisoners would treat him like dirt and kick him and yell at him and hit him and— he stopped as he noticed the Hermit quite clearly boiling over with rage, even as they promised that they were angry at how he was treated, not him. The scars that couldn't have been from normal inventing suddenly started to make more sense.

Another day, the Hermit asked about his life before that, and he rattled on about how his mentor and him had been friends despite Luca's struggles, until an "incident" happened and everything fell apart. The man didn't seem surprised when Luca said how much he thought his mentor hated him, but was quite a bit more surprised when he started explaining how great of a man that mentor was. The Hermit joked about not expecting compliments, only to get "you remind me of him! Just... Less intimidating?" Thrown his way. They'd never thought about how much pressure Luca must have been in underneath them.

The day he tried asking about the Invention was the first time Luca cried in front of him. Luca had frozen up when asked to explain, and the words flooded out like a waterfall as he broke down, saying how he couldn't even remember the what damn thing, or how it worked, or what to do, or anything. The Hermit held him, then. Not close, but enough to comfort. They pretended not to hear Luca's quiet cries for his mentor.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

One night, after preparing for this moment the whole week before, the Hermit came into Luca's room with a single request. "Tell me everything you remember about what happened between you and your mentor when he died, and I'll never ask for anything from you again. I promise."

And Luca stares in disbelief for a while, until he bolsters himself enough to speak. He starts slow, reiterating things he's said before. Invention, Mentor, everything was okay, then a problem arose.

He found manuscripts that he believed belonged to his father. He'd never seen them, so he thought Alva had been hiding them intentionally to steal from them.

[Alva didn't even think of that at the time, though he's wondered about it many times after he died, of course. But Luca should know they belonged to his father. His name was plastered everywhere on them.]

After he found them, he explains there was an argument where he was harsh, too harsh, and ran off to where the invention lay in order to calm down.

[The argument part was correct, but he wasn't harsh. He was just confusing, and didn't explain. The entire last part was wrong, however. He'd done several other things before that.]

He tells about how his mentor had walked in, and in a seething fit of rage for what had happened he'd picked up the tools he was using and— it was an accident. He swears it was an accident.

[Alva had barged in, not walked. And the replay of that fateful moment that's forever stuck on loop in his brain shows Luca startled, not angry. But whether or not it was an accident doesn't matter right now.

Because the man he took under his wing for all these years is crumpled on the floor under the weight of his breathless confessions.]

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Luca clings to the man at the first offer, feeling himself shatter into tiny pieces. This man should hate him for all he's done. Do what the others did back then, hurt him, condemn him, kill him too! But the man doesn't. Luca doesn't realise he's not the only one crying as he begs. For forgiveness, for pain, for hatred, for this to stop, for— for Alva.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Luca knows, somewhere, that his mentor is here to hold him. But that somewhere likely isn't part of his conscious mind. But Alva hears his name, over and over again, as Luca collapses into him. He doesn't know if Luca can even recognise his response, but he calls back anyway

"Luca, it's me. I'm here. You're okay. You're okay..."

Even as Luca tries to fight against a sea of emotions, that voice he now recognises makes him fracture more. He doesn't let go, even as he drowns in it. Even when he passes out.

Alva doesn't know what to do. But it'll start with an apology. His own apology, not Luca's broken one. Maybe it'll be like old times. Maybe it'll be better.

They'll be okay. And that's a promise he can keep.

[knightwithahundredkings]

I wrote a short little story about Mordred's life pre-camelot for the first prompt of @queer-ragnelle's May Day Parade! I got very attached to the ocs I made up solely for the purpose of giving Mordred angst later on lol.

[oleander-neruim]

Alrighty everyone so here's what's going to be my "Master Post" for my new brainroting AU.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Welcome to "A Myth's Voyage AU"

Essentially this is a Pirates SMP & Empires SMP x Epic The Musical AU. It follows a loose Canon of Pirates, the storyline of Epic, and nonesense and shenanigans thrown into the mix.

~•~•Behold our lovely Cast & Crew•~•~

『•Fully Established/Solidified•』

• Sausage Mythos as Odysseus 「#Odysseus!Sausage」, the Captain and protagonist of our story

• Joel Beans as Penelope 「#Penelope!Joel」, the Sausage's spouse & stand-in head of the Isles

• Hermes Mythos-Beans as Telemachus 「#Telemachus!Hermes」, Sausage's son

• Will Renais as Polites 「#Polites!Will」, 3rd in command & Sausage's closest crewmate

• Kuervo Fang as Eurylochus 「#Eurylochus!Kuervo」, 2nd in command

• Kyle Eef as Permides 「#Permides!Kyle」, pilot of the head ship

• Red D. Doons as Elpenor 「#Elpenor!Redd」, member of Sausage's main crew

• Aeor as Zeus 「#Zeus!Aeor」, God of Life & Storms

• Exor as Athena 「#Athena!Exor」, God of Death & Wisdom

• Codfather Jimmy as Polyphemus 「#Polyphemus!Jimmy」, a giant bipedal fish monster, "Cyclopes"

• Ocean Queen Lizzie as Poseidon 「#Poseidon!Lizzie」, Goddess of the Ocean

• Pearl Moon as Aeolus 「#Aeolus!Pearl」, Goddess of the Winds

• Fwhip Grim as Hermes 「#Hermes!Fwhip」, Messenger God of Travel

• Gemini Tay Grim as Circe 「#Circe!Gem」, Goddess & Sorceress of Magic

• Acho Denholm as Tiresias 「#Tiresias!Acho」, the Prophet

『•Likely Established/Not Featured Yet•』

• Oli Orion as Apollo 「#Apollo!Oli」, God of the Sun & Music

• Pixlriffs as Hephaestus 「#Hephaestus!Pix」, God of the Forge & Craft

• Katherine Elizabeth as Aphrodite 「#Aphrodite!Katherine」, Goddess of Love & War

• Shrub Berry as Ares 「#Ares!Shrub」, God of War & Bravery

• Joey Graceffa as Hera 「#Hera!Joey」, God of Marriage & Family

• Scott Major as Calypso 「#Calypso!Scott」, Nymph of the Sea, a shapeshifter

• Owen Orange as Antinous 「#Antinous!Owen」, lead suitor & attempted usurper of the "throne"

『• Additional Cast •』

• Guqqie Mey, member of Sausage's main crew

• Michela Ray, member of Sausage's main crew

• Ros Cumber, member of Sausage's main crew

• Puffy Kara, member of Sausage's main crew

• Graecie Elaine, head of another ship on Sausage's fleet

〔Relevant Tags〕

• #AMyth'sVoyageAU -> Main tag for the AU

• #VoyageQueries -> Tag for questions about the AU

• #VoyageTapestries -> Tag for art related to the AU

• #VoyageGossip -> Tag for random rambles or thoughts on the AU

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

I'm not sure what all should be included here honestly but I can add on as we go.

Some names may end up being placeholders if I think of something better but this is what we're working with right now.

My ask box is always open for those who have curiosities or perhaps scene requests

/nudgenudge/

Enjoy your time & enjoy the story

[olive2read]

it’s REVEAL DAY 🎉🎉🎉

for this year’s @pod-together, I teamed up with @carboncopies to create a story from revenant!Wake’s pov.

cn: alllll the spoilers for Harrow the Ninth

summary:

stuck in a random catacomb niche, deep in the Ninth House, Wake gets to know Gideon Nav (whether she wants to or not)

-or-

5 times Gideon went to visit her mum’s niche

-or-

why Wake didn’t take the shot

.

I’m SO CHUFFED with how this turned out and I hope y’all enjoy it!

title & music from Getting Into Knives by the Mountain Goats (covered by carboncopies!)

[lolanbq]

This is me every single time I wake up ngl

[olliexwrites]

Word Search Tag

I was tagged by @bluberimufim (ty!) with the words promise, sick, draw, and night.

I'll be using AGOSL because there are plenty of instances of "promise" aha.

I'll be tagging @space-writes, @thescarleteyes, and @kaylinalexanderbooks with the words light, sad, moon, and rock!

Spoilers below the cut!

Promise —

Lindenbaum sobbed, holding his cold, deceased form closer and staining her limbs and cloak with stygian. She held him close to her own body, wailing into the sky. She didn’t care if the humans came for her now, she would much rather die than live all alone in a world where Florian wasn’t there beside her. He had broken his promise that he would never leave her.

Sick —

Lindenbaum was insulted and began to cry, black streaks trailing down her cheeks. “Shut up, Stella! You’ve gone too far!” Lector was pissed. “You’ve done nothing but belittle everyone since we started this journey, and we’re all sick of it!”  He sat Lindenbaum down on the table before walking toward Stella. 

Draw Move —

Lindenbaum motioned for Lector to place her down on the ground. Once she had positioned herself on her knees, she wrapped her arms around Xin Lan, allowing the struggling youth to bury his face in her shoulder. She didn’t move a muscle, not even when he started crying, muffled sobs falling past his lips. She just stayed there, allowing him to let out the emotions he was feeling.

Night —

When Florian did not return that evening, Lindenbaum was scared for her life. Her body was chilled from her illness, leaving her shivering even as she stayed warm in her home, but she threw her cloak on and ventured outside into the twilight in search of him all the same. Panic overtook her quickly into her search and she ran, ran more than her lungs could stand as the cold night air scraped its way through them. Reaching the edge of the grove, she could hear the sound of footsteps, dark and ominous, and it sounded like it was coming in her direction.

[olliewrites-stuff]

An Open Letter to Hera, Queen of the Gods

Hera.

I've re-written this note countless times,

And this is the best I have so far...

I was angry at first -

An uncontrollable rage

Burned its way through my dark veins

At your betrayal.

You were meant to be my hero...

And you were

For a while;

A strong, independent queen of the gods?

The protector of women?

The deity of marriage,

Childbirth,

And fertility?

You were a strong woman

Unafraid of her femininity -

You were my idol.

My younger,

Terrified,

Gay and genderqueer self

Saw you as hope -

That one day I too would be able to

Embrace my femininity,

Despite everything that made me want to

Renounce it

Because I just didn't

'fit in.'

You sit high on that pedestal

Within Greek mythology.

O Queen of the Gods,

O Goddess and protector of women,

Of marriage,

Of childbirth,

Of family,

O how the world sits rapt at your feet...

O Hera,

Doth thine throne of lies

Adequately support such an undeserving,

Holy,

Rear?

You flaunt the title of

'Goddess of Women'

With a sparkling smile,

As a gruesome history

Of unearned punishment and torture -

Cast by you onto those you

Supposedly protect -

Is hidden away.

Out of sight, out of mind,

Right?

O Hera,

O Goddess of ...

Victim Blamers,

Tell me how much longer

You are going to play the facade

Of protector,

When you have such a contrasting history

Painting a gruesome portrait on

The wall behind you?

I will admit that Zeus

Did not treat you fairly as his bride -

Ever the inconsiderate immortal being,

He spat on the marriage you held sacred

And slept with various others

Without your consent.

Having heard the stories of Zeus and his...

Adventures...

I am horrified at his history of

Taking

T a k i n g

T A K I N G

from others -

Rarely seeking their consent -

And acknowledge that,

As his bride,

You faced an unyielding world of hurt

As he broke your trust

Time and time again.

... I do not,

However,

Pardon you for your crimes against those

You supposedly seek to protect.

Io,

Alcmena,

Semele,

Callisto -

A handful of the many innocent women

(and future children)

You tortured mercilessly

For situations in which

They emerged as victims and survivors.

Zeus may have been

The Tyrant

Of Greek mythology,

But you took the crown as

The Brute.

... I realise that my mortal words

Could not possibly impact your ethereal self.

I realise that this message is no more than

Words on a page,

But

You now have one less blind admirer,

And that has to be enough for me.

Sincerely,

Ollie

© O.M.A

[constablequodo]

READ MY FIC BOY.

[stoportotouch]

wanna read about hodgson having prophetic visions during an opera? sure you do.

[mail-posting]

Some headcanon deductions based off of my headcanon/kin Emil :3

1. Warm: The default state of being, and all that anyone truly ever wants.

A photograph: a mother and father stand each side of a young child. Their hands do not touch.

2. A lamb: Little knowledge, little skills, little idea when to run away.

A photograph: A sick boy leans half-heartedly on his unconscious mother's chest in the street. His crying eyes are wide as they reflect the flash of the camera. The world screams to a halt for him.

3. Empty home: Even with the strange food and the scary voices and the loud noises you can hear, the thing that hurts the most is the need to stay awake.

A diary entry: All that boy's good for is sympathy! He's hopeless at stealing, or tricking, or lying, or anything else we do. I'd be better off raising more hounds than keeping this useless brat!

At the very least, I could make it fun for me to watch.

4. Trapped: You thought you could run away, but the roars of the crowd only got closer and closer.

A diary entry: Damn it all! I thought they would have torn him to shreds, but he managed to fight his way out. looks like he has some strength to him.

The crowd cheered more than I've ever heard them before. I could certainly use his win for a profitable idea...

5: A mutt: maybe this isn't so bad after all...

A photograph: A teenager, bloody and bruised and scarred, is lying asleep on the bottom of a cramped cage. Shackles are locked tight around his ankles. There's a cracked bowl of "food" laying clearly out of reach. It is swarmed by maggots. Despite everything, he looks oddly happy. Must be a nice dream he's having. Shame that it'll be interrupted soon.

6. Stare: You're such an unsightly thing, aren't you?

A diary entry: I saw something on my walk today. I thought it may have been a dog, or some strange lamb, so I wandered up to it. But they were human as they uncurled themselves from where they must have been asleep.

I didn't want to run, I just... panicked. I couldn't find them again to apologise. I hope prayer will be enough. I'm so sorry...

Your son, A. K.

7. Rain: Wash away the filth, the pain, the memories...

A patient record:

Found: on white sand street.

Identity: "Emil"

Age: ?? (16+)

Reasons for institutionalisation: high fever, amnesia, talking to self, disobedient, laziness, bad company.

Suggested treatment: Obedience training involving electroshock therapy and sedatives between. Should be muzzled until trained into not biting. Should be strapped down until trained into not wandering.

8. Gentle words: The faux feeling of safety lifts you up and drops you back down without you having to think... up...down...up...down...sleep.

A medical note: "Emil" has been reacting well to the sedative treatments. However, he currently needs painful stimuli in order to keep himself awake. The ideal state is barely conscious enough to function, so alterations are needed.

The training has, however, gone wonderfully. It has removed his desire to fight or run away completely, although he still freezes up occasionally. It appears he's still having hallucinations.

9. Stressed: That whistle hurts your ears... In fact, everything has hurt more since she appeared.

A small note: a set of neat curly handwriting reads "Ada or medicine?". A different set of shakier handwriting replies "medicine. please". The note is stained with tears.

10: A carriage ride: You've always loved watching the world swim through your glassy eyes.

A photograph: Two men wearing dark clothes are talking to each other to the side of a carriage. One of the men is handing over a hefty sum of money to the other. The one recieving it holds a letter in his hand.

Next to them, a smaller, younger man sits cross legged, wrapping a dandelion clock he picked around his fingers. He looks exhausted, or maybe just empty, but there's a smile on his face as the seeds catch in his hair.

[combeauferre]

and i cut my hair (because i'm worth it)

les miserables, rated t, 4.5k words

“Hey,” Courfeyrac says, standing. Enjolras and Combeferre turn to look at them. “You wanna do something stupid?” Enjolras�� anxious face piques in interest, and he smiles softly. “What d- do you have in mind?” Courfeyrac holds up the scissors. “You want your parents to see a son? Gotta start somewhere.”

read on ao3

21:45 – Sébastien: Can I please come over?

Courfeyrac looks up when their phone pings, and frowns. It’s not unusual for Enjolras to come to them for advice, to be cheered up, or for general gender-talk. But a plea to come over is a Combeferre text, surely. A best-friend-of-God-knows-how-many-years text.

Nevertheless, Courfeyrac will answer the call for aid. If this is a best-friend-of-six-months kind of text, they will be the best best-friend-of-six-months they can be.

Downstairs, their parents are still up, talking in rushed Italian over the phone to Courf’s eldest sister.

Vivina is still settling into life in Marseilles, still struggling to find friends, which continues to take Courf by surprise. Back home, she could charm anyone. And it’s not like their French is broken, it’s not like they can’t communicate. But the Marseilles accent is thick and difficult to understand without longer-than-natural pauses while the brain catches up, never mind other people trying to understand them through their own Ligurian accents.

Courf and their four sisters have collectively decided to blame their southern French-born father; somehow, despite living his whole childhood in the city, Frédéric never passed the accent on to his children.

On top of the language barrier, the bustle of Marseilles is so far removed from the everyday peacefulness of their grandparents’ farm and vineyard, even from the busiest parts of Genoa. Courf has to admit, it feels more foreign here than they expected it to. They feel foreign. 

But at least they’ve found Enjolras and Combeferre.

“Mamma!” Courf calls from their bed. From the room next to their own, a grumble to quiet down comes from Theresa.

“Jules?” their mother answers, walking to the bottom of the stairs. “Come where I can see you.”

Sighing, Courfeyrac hauls themself up off their bed and into the hallway, where they drape themself over the banister to look at their mother.

“Can Sébastien come over?”

She gives them a look.

“It’s a school night, Jules.”

“I know, but-”

“It’s almost time for bed.”

“Mamma, it’s urgent.”

She sighs and folds her arms.

“How urgent?”

Five minutes later and Courfeyrac’s best bullshitting attempts at a situation they know nothing about out the way, a text is sent back.

21:53 – Jules: come right over. what happened?

21:54 – Sébastien: I’m already on my way. Gabriel is coming over too.

No closer to understanding the situation at hand, Courf groans. They decide against going through the whole song and dance again to get Combeferre in the house. If the three of them are quick, their mother need never know.

Their great plan to smuggle both boys upstairs to their room is foiled by Geovana hovering by the door when the bell rings. Sheepishly, Courf opens the door to reveal Enjolras and Combeferre. The breath of a mother about to scold her child is cut short by the tearstains visible across Enjolras’ face, and Geovana is only human.

“Oddio! Come in, you two,” she says, hurriedly taking Enjolras by the hand and leading him inside. “Jules told me there was a bit of a situation, let me get you boys some tea, okay?”

Enjolras softens immediately and Courfeyrac understands. Under this roof, Enjolras is Sébastien. The de Courfeyracs have no intention of meeting the Enjolrases, so there is no reason to keep up the pretense of deadnaming their friend around Geovana and Frédéric; and Courfeyrac knows from personal experience how accepting their parents are of genders they do not understand.

The Combeferres, on the other hand, have known the Enjolrases for years. Under Ferre’s roof, Enjolras continues to be Noémie. The Combeferres adore Enjolras, but here, he can just be a man. And right now, it looks like that is exactly what he needs.

With weary eyes, Enjolras approaches Courfeyrac and all but falls into them. Courf's arms come up around him and hold him close, a thumb gently rubbing up and down his back.

"What happened?" they ask quietly.

"T-t-tell you in a." He pauses and takes a breath, fists scrunching around the back of Courfeyrac's shirt, forehead creasing against their neck. "In a bit."

"Okay."

Courfeyrac only has time to share one concerned look with Combeferre, one that tells them he doesn’t know what’s going on either, before Geovana is back in the hallway, gently pushing Enjolras' shoulder back so she can place a mug of tea in his hand.

"Th-thank you, Madame de Courfeyrac," Enjolras says quietly, avoiding her eyes as he focuses on getting each sound out right. No matter how many times Courf tells him Geovana would never judge him on his stammer, he continues on with short sentences that he can keep under control.

For her part, Geovana just smiles and squeezes his shoulder gently.

“You guys wanna come up to my room?” Courf asks their friends, dodging Geovana’s eyes in the hopes they’ll miss the lecture if they’re quick enough. Catching the hint, Enjolras and Combeferre turn and head right up the stairs, Courf hot on their heels.

"Jules," Geovana calls sternly after them. Of course, she knows every trick in their book. When Courf turns back, though, her face is soft. "If they're staying the night, you'd better have the air mattresses blown up before Theresa goes to sleep."

Courfeyrac still rolls their eyes.

"I know, Mamma."

She holds them in a firm stare a second longer, but says nothing more.

“I got most of that,” Combeferre says quietly as they climb the stairs, “but what was that she said about materassi gon…”

“Gonfiabili,” Courfeyrac finishes for him, laughing, “air mattresses, for you two to sleep on.”

“Oh,” he nods, smiling softly, “I’ll remember for next time.”

Learning Italian for school these last six months has become a way for Enjolras and Combeferre to impress Courf’s family, and Ferre is slowly on his way to twisting Courfeyrac’s arm into teaching him Italian, in exchange for obscure Marseillais slang. Maybe he’s not as good at persuading people as Enjolras is, but Courf is soft on him, anyway.

In the six months they've lived here, Geovana has been more accommodating to Courfeyrac's two new best friends than she ever was to their friends back home. Sometimes Courfeyrac wonders what their life would have been like if they'd stayed in Genoa, kept working on the vineyard, hung out with the same group of people at school that Geovana kept insisting were no good for him. Of course, she had been right, in the end.

Whatever she'd thought about them, she must feel the exact opposite towards Combeferre and Enjolras. Her no boys in the bedroom rule completely fell through after Enjolras came out to her and Courfeyrac had begged her to continue letting them have sleepovers, to be allowed to invite Combeferre to them as well, ready with their argument of, it doesn't even really make sense when I'm pansexual, does it, Mamma? And she had to admit, they had a point.

Combeferre is more sensible than any of the friends she'd had at that age, in any case, and she trusts them all together. They're smart, and they're good influences on Courfeyrac, and they care about each other. And who is Geovana to get in the way of that?

Closing the door on the rest of the house, Courfeyrac sits down on the bed next to Enjolras. Combeferre stands in the corner, leaning on the wardrobe, mug cupped in both hands.

"Tell us what happened?" Courf asks quietly, a hand coming to rest on Enjolras' knee.

He sighs.

"I-I-I-I just want to." The ‘t’ sound is hard, and lingers in his mouth. He pauses. "I want t-to be t-tr-trea-tr-” he takes a deep, frustrated breath, “To be normal." He puts his tea down forcefully on the bedside table and stands. "My parents ac-act like I- I can't do shit."

He takes a deep breath, then another, and pushes his thumb into his opposing palm.

"I tol-told them today that I joined th-the- the debate team." He sighs. "I- I was go-going to show them I can do it. I wanted to prove- prove th- them-” his hand twists, his nail replacing the pad of his thumb, “wanted to prove them wrong." Restlessly, he sits again, crosses his legs, uncrosses them. "I- I- I didn't e- ev- even get- didn’t even get th- that far.”

"What did they say?" Combeferre asks quietly. He's leaning forward, brow furrowed, jaw set. Courfeyrac's never met anyone so protective of their friend, as Combeferre is of Enjolras.

"They-they said I should h- have asked, and th-th- I need to- to get my voice under control first." He curls in on himself. “Never mind that- that my speech th- ther- therapist said it would be- be good for me.”

As much as Courf knows that seeing Enjolras in this light is a sign of their friendship and the trust they are slowly growing together, it is painful to watch. Larger than life, unapologetic Enjolras, making himself as small as he possibly can. Enjolras, who can stand on a stage and tear apart any opposing argument with no preparation, who just wants to please his parents.

“But you’re already doing so well,” Combeferre says, frowning. “If they just came and saw you – everyone says they’ve never seen anyone take an argument apart as thoroughly as you can.”

“I’m just-” he takes another deep breath, forehead creasing, “I’m ti- tired. Everyth- th- everything is such- such hard work.”

“They’ll come around,” Courfeyrac says gently, desperate to say something useful – although Enjolras’ eyes squeezing shut tells them it was the wrong thing to say, and they mentally kick themself for it.

“I- I’ve been waiting s- so- so long f- for- for that,” he says, voice raising slightly, words beginning to mangle together in his frustration, “I just em- embarrass them.”

“Are they going to make you leave the team?” Combeferre asks quietly.

Enjolras shrugs.

“St- stupid stammer jus- just- just gets in the way of all m- my shit,” he mutters. His nails dig into the flesh of his forearm, and Courfeyrac gently reaches over and twines their fingers together. They get a small, sad almost-smile in return.

“As long as- as long as I- I- I talk like th-this,” his voice wavers, the words getting more difficult to say as he gets worked up, every sound catching on his tongue, “They- they’ll never see me as someone who can- can- can get anywhere.”

“You’ll show them,” Combeferre says, sitting down on the other side of him. “Regardless of what they think, you’ll still be wiping the floor with everyone else.”

“But I want them- wan- want them t- to th- think- think I can do it!” Enjolras near-shouts, standing again, hand ripping away from Courfeyrac’s, coming up to tug at his hair. With every correction, his fist pulls tighter. “I want them to- to look at me, and… not see a disappoint- pointment.” He sighs. “I’ll al-always have a stammer, I- I- I’ll always be autistic… God knows what they- they’ll think of me wh- when they find out I’m trans too.”

Combeferre tentatively gets up and holds his arms out. Slowly, Enjolras retreats into them, folding around Combeferre the way he has for years. Courfeyrac hears a gentle, quiet, “I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry.”

Something in their chest pulls every time they’re reminded of Enjolras and Ferre’s closeness, and of their own place as second-best. It doesn’t hurt often; they can live with it. But watching this – it’s private, and they’re a trespasser.

“I don’t wan- want to be their- their perfect little girl,” Enjolras says quietly, “It would be so easy, if that- that was what I- I wanted. But I want them to- to look at me and see their son. And th- they never- never will.”

Feeling helpless, Courfeyrac looks around the room, anywhere but at their friends. Their eyes fall on the old pair of scissors that sit on the dresser, and a sly smile creeps on to their face.

“Hey,” they say, standing. Enjolras and Combeferre turn to look at them. “You wanna do something stupid?”

Enjolras’ anxious face piques in interest, and he smiles softly.

“What d- do you have in mind?”

Courfeyrac holds up the scissors.

“You want your parents to see a son? Gotta start somewhere.” They raise an eyebrow at Enjolras, challenging him. He grins back, just like Courfeyrac knew he would.

Combeferre looks between them and shakes his head, half in fondness and half in desperation.

“You’re a terrible influence, Jules.”

Courfeyrac just smirks and shrugs.

“You love it.”

Giggling quietly, they make their way into the bathroom. Enjolras is first, immediately frowning and looking in the mirror. His hair is a point of pride for his parents, long and near-platinum blond. It’s only ever been trimmed to tidy it up, and it hangs down to his waist.

He hates it.

Courfeyrac is next, behind Enjolras, playing with his hair like they’re a stylist. Combeferre comes in last, a twisted, uncomfortable feeling in his gut. Enjolras might regret this, when he goes home to his parents tomorrow and they flip their shit. But the last thing he wants is to spoil this; Enjolras’ face is set and determined, and any kind of visible discomfort from Ferre could pull him back. He needs his friends’ support right now, to do something very minimal, and very brave.

“So,” Courfeyrac begins, still grinning, watching Enjolras in the mirror. His nerves have disappeared, and he grins back, a fierce glee in his eyes. “What would you like us do to?”

“I just-” he pauses, thinking about it a second. “Just get rid- rid of it.”

“Yeah?”

Courfeyrac looks at Combeferre for approval, and Combeferre shrugs and picks up the scissors. When he met Enjolras, he would never have agreed to something like this. He was the good kid, once, but he’s learnt a lot since then. He knows better.

“Just, start anywhere?” Ferre asks, reaching out and running his hand gently through Enjolras’ hair. He has to admit, it is beautiful – soft, luscious, and healthy.

Watching them now, Courf can only guess the amount of effort Enjolras takes to maintain it. It doesn’t suit him.

“Get it gone,” Enjolras says, nodding firmly. “Alth- though, may-maybe we can keep it,” his eyes drop from the mirror, and he looks at his hands. “I- I want to- to donate it.”  

Courfeyrac begins rummaging in the cupboard, and produces a hair tie.

“Let me?” they ask gently, stepping in to gather all of Enjolras’ long hair into one handful, tying it. “Like this.” They make a scissoring motion above the hair tie and look at Combeferre. “After that, I guess we just wing it, right?”

“Sounds good to me,” Combeferre says, “Don’t expect anything amazing from us though, Bas.”

“It- it’ll be amazing to- to have it gone,” Enjolras replies, finding his own eyes in the mirror. They are firm and sure. Courfeyrac thinks, in that moment, they’d probably trust Enjolras in anything, if he had that much surety in it.

It’s Combeferre who takes the scissors, holds them above the ponytail, gives Enjolras one more questioning glance. He receives a firm nod back, and grins.

The hacking through Enjolras’ hair that follows is far from glamorous. If only a hairdresser could see them now, those scissors would be taken away and never given back. The line is jagged and Enjolras hisses in pain a couple of times, but Combeferre persists.

“I think,” Courfeyrac says, folding their arms as they watch, “That maybe you should never become an executioner.”

Moving the scissors away from Enjolras’ hair, Combeferre gives them a look over his glasses.

“Well, there go my hopes and dreams,” he says, dryly.

Enjolras giggles in front of them, shaking his head.

“I- I- I really d- don’t know what we’d be- be with- without you, Jules,” he says fondly, looking up at them in the mirror. His words still struggle to form correctly, but right now, he doesn’t care. Courfeyrac beams back.

Combeferre turns back to Enjolras’ hair, and with a few more haphazard slashes of the scissors, the ponytail comes loose in his hand. Grinning, Combeferre passes it to Enjolras. He holds it gently, victoriously.

“Now what?” Courfeyrac asks. “My turn?”

Standing back, Combeferre folds his arms and inspects Enjolras’ hair.

“Should we watch a Youtube video, maybe?” he says, running his hands gently through the messy ends. “You know, so it… doesn’t look like we did it at home?”

Turning his head, Enjolras looks at his hair in the mirror and considers.

“I kin- kind of want it to- to look like we did it,” he says finally, turning around to properly look at his friends. “I want my parents- parents to know I- I came to you guys and we ju- just-  just sliced it off.”

Courfeyrac grins at him, before turning to Combeferre.

“May I?” they ask, holding out their hands for the scissors.

Combeferre’s answering smile is a shade Courfeyrac has never seen before, and it sends a thrill through them. Every day, they learn a new facet of their two best friends.

“Do your worst.”

“Well,” Enjolras says from below them, grinning, “Really, I- I- I could do with- with it being somewhat pre- presen- sentable.”

Courfeyrac places a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder.

“I promise not to completely destroy your hair,” they say with as much sincerity as they can manage amidst their grin. In the mirror, Enjolras laughs, eyes flicking between meeting Courf’s own eyes, the hair on his head, and the hair in his hands.

“What do you think?” Courfeyrac says, running their fingers through the hair around Enjolras’ forehead, “do you want bangs? Side bangs?” they take a handful of hair on the left side of Enjolras’ head and pull it unceremoniously across his forehead. “Emo fringe?”

Laughing once more, Enjolras bats their hand away.

“No fringe,” he says, “I ac- act- actually kind of like my- my forehead.”

Before they can stop themself, Courf leans down and presses a kiss to his temple.

“Me too.”

From the side, Combeferre watches quietly. The Enjolras in front of him is so different from the Enjolras he met seven years ago. Small, ten-year-old Enjolras, who’d never had or needed a school friend, who he never saw smile, let alone at anyone else, who took weeks, months, to really understand that Combeferre was his friend.

And maybe he’s not so different; he still doesn’t give a shit what other people think, and as much as he values Combeferre and Courfeyrac deeply, he doesn’t feel the need to fill the gaps with more people. But here, he’s happy. He’s loose and starting to relax and he’s free, and Combeferre takes a moment to just drink that in.

“I should do that thing,” Courfeyrac says, pulling him from his thoughts, “you know, where hairdressers…” they trail off in favour of concentrating, pulling a section of hair through two flat fingers and haphazardly hacking at it on an angle. “Like that, right?”

Enjolras laughs and shrugs.

“I can’t- can’t act- actually see you,” he says, “but- but yes, sure.”

Courf continues on this way for a little while, quietly chipping away at sections of hair with no system, but somehow, the hair begins to take shape. Around the chair, piles of golden hair settle and Enjolras is yet to realise how much of it is clinging to his shirt.

“You know,” Courf says, after a while, “Your hair’s so pale, I bet you could dye it any colour you wanted.”

“Dyeing it might- might be a lit- little too far, th- th- thi- today,” Enjolras says, catching Courf’s eyes in the mirror once more, “but may- maybe another time.”

A knock on the bathroom door makes them all jolt and look around.

“Jules,” Geovana calls, “remember what I said about the air mattresses, it’s nearly eleven.”

Courfeyrac groans, rolling their eyes.

“What are you three doing in there, anyway?”

“Nothing!” they call back, too quickly. Combeferre sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s not entirely sure on what Geovana asked, but he can guess.

“On a scale of one to ten,” he says, “how mad is your mother going to be?”

“Probably, like…” they think about it a moment, “a six?”

“Right.” Sighing again, Combeferre opens the door slightly. “I’ll go sort the air mattresses.”

Geovana makes way for him to come out the bathroom and smiles at him gratefully. But when Courfeyrac tries to close it behind him, she catches the door.

Swallowing, Courf lets the door go, giving Geovana a sheepish smile.

“Hey, Mamma,” they say nervously.

She takes one look around the room and sighs.

“Jules,” she begins, now in French, “why do I feel like you three don’t have permission from Sébastien’s parents to be doing this?”

“It’s my h- hair,” Enjolras grumbles quietly.

Shaking her head, fighting the fond smile on her face, Geovana turns around.

“I saw nothing, understood?”

Behind her, Courfeyrac beams.

“Thank you, Mamma!”

She turns back, fixing them with another stern look.

“You’d better clear this up first thing tomorrow, before school,” she says, “and Sébastien, love, give me your shirt to wash when you’re done, okay? You can borrow something of Jules’ for tomorrow.”

The tension in Enjolras’ shoulders ebbs away.

“Thank- thank you, Madame de Courfeyrac,” he says quietly.

She shakes her head, this time letting the smile cross her face.

“One day, you’ll drop that formality,” she tells him, “You’ve been coming in this house long enough. All this ‘Madame de Courfeyrac’ makes me feel very old.”

Enjolras offers her a nervous smile by way of apology, and she turns around, softly closing the door behind her.

“That could’ve been worse, huh?” Courf laughs. Enjolras flashes them a nervous smile. “Anyway,” they continue, patting him on the shoulder, “what do you think so far?”

Enjolras lifts a hand, running his fingers through his hair. It still looks feminine, objectively, but as he ruffles it with his hand, it sends a thrill through him.

“I love it.”

Courf grins and wraps their arms around him.

“Good. Is there anything else you want me to do to it?”

Enjolras turns his head from side to side, considering.

“I th- think it-it’s perfect,” he says, smiling softly, “will your mamma be mad if- if I- I take a shower this- this late?”

Courf shakes their head.

“Not at all,” they say, kissing his forehead one more time. “I’ll grab you a towel and some fresh PJs, yeah?”

Nodding, Enjolras continues to look at himself in the mirror. Courfeyrac turns to leave.

“Jules?”

They turn back to look at him expectantly. He smiles, sincerity shining out from his eyes.

“Th- thank you.”

Courf smiles back widely, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder.

“Anything for you.”

In Courf’s bedroom, Combeferre has set up the two air mattresses and pushed them together. With some blankets that Geovana gave him, he’s made them look cozy and inviting, and Courfeyrac almost wishes they were going to be down there with Ferre and Enjolras, instead of in their own bed.

“Hey,” they say quietly, making their way to the bed. Combeferre smiles warmly.

“Hey yourself,” he says, settling down on one side of his makeshift double bed.

“Thanks, for helping us do that,” Courf says, looking at their hands, “I was kind of worried you were gonna tell us to stop.”

“So was I,” Ferre confesses, giving Courf an almost shy smile. Combeferre is one of the least shy people they’ve ever met. “I’m really glad we’re friends, Jules,” he says, after a beat, “you make us have more fun.”

Courfeyrac grins.

“Happy to be of service,” they say, giving a mock bow. Combeferre chuckles.

“Really, though,” he presses, “I think you complete us.”

It’s cheesy, but Courf knows exactly what he means.

They’ve never told Enjolras and Ferre what their friendship circle was like back home. They were a harsh, nasty group who Jules got swept into thanks to their close friend’s new, horrible boyfriend. Jules came out to the lot of them only a week before moving to Marseilles. It was left so late because they knew, in their heart of hearts, that it was going to be awful.

At best, they were met with comments about how all the cute girls end up being lesbians; at worst, it was a “don’t worry, we’ll help you grow out of it”, followed by a fist to the stomach and a spit in the face. They still remember the look on their best friend’s face, like she was helpless, like she didn’t know if she wanted it to stop. Like she was more shocked that her friend was queer, than that her partner would beat them to the ground for it.

Suddenly, correcting them all on not, in fact, being a lesbian, became the least of Jules’ worries.

They never told their parents; the bruises visible on their face and arms spoke for them. But leaving behind Chiara, their second-oldest sister and best friend in the world, had swiftly become unbearable. Clinging to each other in the moments before leaving, she promised to visit soon, and made them promise to come back as often as they could.

Chiara is yet to meet Enjolras and Combeferre, but Courf knows she’s going to adore them.

Enjolras emerges from the shower ten minutes later, hair short and shaggy and dripping, cozy in Courf’s warm pyjamas, beaming.

“You like it?” Courf asks, jumping up to take a closer look.

“I- I love it,” he confirms, letting Courf run their fingers through it. Ferre is right behind them, inspecting their handiwork. It’s far from professional; it couldn’t be clearer that two teenagers with no experience did it. But Enjolras is happier than either of them have ever seen him, and the rest fades away.

While Enjolras finishes towel drying his hair, Courfeyrac grabs the camera they’d gotten for their birthday last year. Before they moved to Marseilles, it had only taken a handful of photos of people, Courf instead using it for landscapes, the mountains, the vineyard as the sun set. Since meeting Enjolras and Combeferre, the camera has filled up with grinning faces, laughs, memories Courf will cling to for years.

Ferre sees them setting the timer and grins, tugging Enjolras down to sit on either side of Courf, where they are positioning the camera as best as they can.

“Ready?” they ask, looking at each of their friends. After two quick, excited nods, Courf clicks the trigger and gets into place, wrapping one arm around Enjolras’ shoulders and the other around Combeferre’s waist. The other two lean in, grinning, and the shutter clicks.

The photo is one of the first to go up in the shared Triumvirate flat, two years later, as they begin their first year of university. It takes pride of place, in between the first Triumvirate sleepover and their first outing as a four, when Enjolras introduced Courfeyrac to Jehan, a trip that left them close and crushing on each other.

Next will go the photo of Enjolras and his high school debate team, following regional championships, alongside one of Courf’s favourite photos of Enjolras, mid-debate, arm raised, hair a scruffy, untamed halo behind him.

There’s a solemnity to the photo wall, Courf thinks when he walks past it every day, of feelings and experiences and time gone by. But there’s nothing Courf would change about those experiences. And there’s plenty more space on the wall.

[0lympus-mons]

if you see me quietly retcon things in past works to suit my newest narrative no you didn't

[knightwithahundredkings]

A short story about Guinevere and her relationship to tables throughout her life for @queer-ragnelle's 2024 May Day Parade prompt "May Queen Guinevere"!