#why the fuck not i guess

[delusionalbitchinthehouse]

I usually write Ghost fanfics but my little musical theater enthusiast brain has been buzzing since I saw Les Mis in Paris, so, there you go. Also, feels strange to write about my french little guys from a french book in english, given that I am, yes you guessed it, french, but oh well. I like my writting better in english anyway.

It's the light scraping of his chair that betrays Grantaire. He's been sitting in silence for quite a while now, content to watch Enjolras furiously scribble under the flickering light of dying candles for as long as the blond's engrossed mind will allow him.

The sudden noise puts an end to it, as it makes Enjolras look up, sharp eyes, barely dulled by the shadows underneath them, locking on Grantaire's slouched form. Impossibly bright blue flickers toward the bottle in his hand, pink lips, bitten raw in deep reflexion, pressing into a thin line. Grantaire watches mournfully as Enjolras' brow knits.

"I would have thought you'd be gone by now, Grantaire. Gone or asleep, at least. Has your liquor not knocked you uncouncious yet ?"

There isn't as much bite to the words as Grantaire expected. Enjolras' voice is steady, if not slightly strained with the exhaustion that no doubts weights on him. Stripped, for the moment at least, of his scalding enthusiasm and righteous fury, messy hair golden in what little light it catches, tie sitting as loose and askew as ever, Enjolras seems less marble, more flesh. Grantaire blinks slowly, feeling the effect of his own tiredness, huming lowly.

"It seems that today, my dear mistress absynth has left me before my eyes could close, and in such hurry that she took my legs with her. I will just sit here, if you'll let me."

Enjolras' face scrunches up as he lays his pen next to his work, careful not to smuge the still-drying ink with his sleeve.

"I do not understand how you could call mistress something that hurts you so much, Grantaire."

The disarming earnestness with which the reprimand- because it is still one - falls from Enjolras' mouth is almost enough for Grantaire to forget his wit. Almost. He reclines further in his seat with a half-smile he knows Enjolras abhors, twirling the bottle in his hand.

"You say that as if yours only ever did you good. How many times did Patria dear hurt you, Apollo ?"

The blond's expression sours further, but he doesn't snap. Instead, he gets up, leans over the table to gently pry the bottle from Grantaire's loose grasp. It was mostly empty anyway, and in doing so, Enjolras' undone collar gives Grantaire a great view of his collarbones. They're nice collarbones, and he is not strangely hypnotized by the sight, not at all.

When Enjolras drags a chair closer to Grantaire, plopping there with a deep sigh, it feels like the earth tilted on its axis just a bit. Because Enjolras is sitting right here, ankle propped on his knee while the other brushes Grantaire's, watching him with only a spark of annoyance and much more curiosity. There's a grace to Enjolras that Grantaire's wretched hands never quite managed to capture on paper, something that makes the way he rolls his sleeves just now captivating. The Musain is long closed, the backroom barely lit, shadows waiting in the corners, but Enjolras is still a vision. Grantaire's unworthy eyes are roaming, too much exposed skin, too close ; he is afraid an inch closer and Enjolras' simmering fire will melt him like those poor dying candles fighting to provide light.

"Patria hasn't hurt me."

Grantaire huffs, something both fond and painful swirling in his chest.

"No, my aplogies. You've hurt yourself for her."

Enjolras shakes his head, curls bouncing around the sculpted angles of his face. He has his stubborn face on - his everyday face, really.

"I've hurt myself for my beliefs. For the people. Such an important battle requires sacrifices. What I don't understand is how you can love something that causes you so much aimless pain so fiercly."

Saying so, Enjolras gestures toward the discarted bottle, but Grantaire feels like they're straying from the subject, like maybe Enjolras meant something else. Or maybe alcohol is encouraging his self indulgent thoughts. However Enjolras is still waiting for an answer, leaning just that much further toward Grantaire. It's dangerous, to trust him with that face up close and personal, the arch of those eyebrows, the sparkle of those dream-like eyes, the slight crookedness of that nose, sharp cheekbones and even sharper jaw, oh, and Grantaire can't bare looking at Enjolras' mouth, at the pink of perfect lips.

He would lean back, put some distance between them, but he can go no further, the chair's back digging in his spine. It takes a too-long pause and a clearing of throat before Grantaire can answer.

"I believe it happens more often than you seem to believe. As you know, le coeur a ses raisons. Sometimes, the hurt isn't nearly bad enough to move on from the good. Sometimes, the hurt is so entertwined with the good it becomes one. Sometimes-"

There Grantaire's voice breaks, but he is determined to finish his sentence.

"...sometimes, the hurt is all that is deserved."

Because he's sitting so close, Grantaire can see the way Enjolras' expression crumbles at that, taking pieces of his already mangled heart with it.

"R..."

The nickname, both foreign and familiar, rolls off Enjolras' tongue with a pained accent. It's like for once, he's at a loss for words, rethoric failing him perhaps for the first time in his life. Grantaire would jest about it, if he didn't felt naked under the steel of Enjolras' eyes. Then a hand covers his, and his brain officially stops functioning, nothing but a low hum running through his head, because even when Grantaire is sure he can't anymore, Enjolras surprises him.

The stray spots of ink on Enjolras' fingers smudge on Grantaire's own when the blond tangles them together, thumb running along the veins at the back of his hand. He is warm, something that somehow always startles Grantaire. There, in the backroom of the Café Musain, as the shadows keep gaining ground, threatening to swallow them both, Enjolras and Grantaire hold hands.

"You don't deserve the hurt," Enjolras whispers after a long pause, urgency tainting his words, as if making Grantaire believe that was of the highest importance, "you don't. And if I gave you the impression that you did, then I apologize. I apologize, R."

Nothing could have prepared Grantaire for the way Enjolras then bows his head, pressing his lips to R's scarred knuckles. The touch, light, tender, unexpected, like the suspicious shine in Enjolras' eyes when he straightens, takes Grantaire completely by surprise, leaving him to stare with his jaw on the floor. He doesn't say anything, can't, really, which Enjolras seems to take as a bad omen, for his hold on Grantaire's hand slackens.

R can't let that happen, not when it feels like Enjolras letting go would shatter him, a man turned porcelain doll by the simple squeeze of slender fingers. Grantaire's hand convulsively tightens around Enjolras'. One of the candle dies, the shadows lunge closer, but they're still vaillantly held off by the last two flames burning low. Even now, Grantaire can make out the relief washing over Enjolras' face, and he doesn't need light to feel the blond matching the strenght of his grip.

It should be studied, the way Grantaire's heart manages to miss at least three beats, then jump into a frankly concerning rythm when Enjolras leans closer, free hand delicately cupping R's jaw, like he's something to hold with care, like he's worthy of a touch that's careful, a touch that admires. In his wildest dreams, Grantaire would have never imagined this : Enjolras' head tilted so he can maintain eyecontact through the dark curls tangled on R's forehead, so close they could accidentally headbutt each other at any sudden movement.

The look on Enjolras' face is familiar, something that's usually reserved for when Combeferre's migraine has him excusing himself from a meeting, or when Eponine slinks in the back of the room to pretend she's not looking for Marius with a look of utter exhaustion, when Feuilly collapses on his chair with a sigh heavier than him, when Jehan curls in on themselves instead of chatting with everyone.

Worry, Grantaire's brain supplies.

"Let me take you home," Enjolras hums, absent-mindedly brushing a strand of hair away from Grantaire's face. It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to answer, his smirk somehow less convincing than he would like it to be.

"Why, dear Apollo, that is certainly an offer."

Pink spills on Enjolras' cheeks, a delicious flush Grantaire longs to know the extend of.

"I did not mean...I simply want to make sure you get some sleep."

"I know what you meant, Apollo, I'm only teasing you. I am surprised, though, i'll admit it. Do you even know where I live ?"

Enjolras nods, with the steel-clad certainty of the ones who are rarely wrong. He may even be smiling, if Grantaire's wishful eyes aren't deceiving him.

"I do. You rent a room a few blocks from here ; it is a rather short walk, but one you like to prolong by wandering through streets you needn't take."

It's said so matter-of-factly, like that little bit of Grantaire's routine is a well-known constant somewhere in Enjolras' brain. R doesn't remember ever explicitly mentionning his tendency to roam the streets aimlessly to anyone other than Bossuet and Joly, maybe Bahorel too. Unless, of course, Enjolras was paying more attentions to the conversations unrelated to the cause than Grantaire thought.

"Besides," Enjolras adds as, once more, R let the silence stretch on for too long, "I was talking about mine."

"Your-"

Grantaire might just faint at this point.

"Yes, Grantaire, my room."

This conversation feels like a fever dream. Enjolras of all people, asking Grantaire to follow him to his room, with barely enough space between them for the words to really leave the blond's mouth; it is so deeply incomprehensible Grantaire can do nothing but chuckle, now only drunk on the sheer astonishment he's feeling.

"Now you're just asking me to twist your words," he grins, leaning slightly more into Enjolras' hand, willing his shaken brain to memorize the feeling. The blond scoffs, but despite the deepening blush now spreading on his neck, he smiles, dangerously charming and charmingly dangerous.

"I'm afraid I share a wall with Combeferre, a thin one. Whatever you wanted to imply would never happen here, unless you don't mind the audience."

The laugh that spills from Grantaire's lips is crazed, whole body shaking with it. He feels like he's going insane, because there is no way Enjolras anticipated a crude joke and went along with it. Not only that, but the way he phrased it- it almost sounded like the option was only off the table because of the risk of making Combeferre an unwilling witness. No, Grantaire can't think about this, can't read into it, so he just laughs, face slipping from Enjolras' hand when his head falls back.

"Ah, Enjolras, it looks as if your humor awakens after the witching hour."

Standing up, the blond allowes himself to smile down at Grantaire, holding himself in a looser form than in the light of day.

"I didn't intended it to be half as funny as you seem to find it, Grantaire. So, what do you say ?"

Grantaire stares at the hand Enjolras extended for him, palm up. He shouldn't do this. Tonight is going better than he would have ever expected, but he and Enjolras walk a thin line, all the time. If Grantaire had to describe their relationship, he would call it whiplash-inducing, always pulling them back and forth in opposite directions. And tonight, Enjolras is hauling the both of them further than they ever went, like pulling taunt an elastic ; Grantaire should think of his poor little heart, of how it'll hurt that much more once the elastic snaps, and they're yanked back to the opposite end of their dynamic.

Instead, he takes Enjolras' hand and let him pull him to his feet. For a beat too long, they stay like this, chests almost brushing with each inhale, both aware of the importance of the moment without being able to fully grasp it still.

Then Enjolras clears his throat, taking a few steps back to collect his things. Grantaire busies himself by pushing the chairs back where they belong, keeping an eye on Enjolras as he pats his pockets for the double of the keys Musichetta let him use so he doesn't have to leave when she does.

Wordlessly, Enjolras splays a hand between Grantaire's shoulderblades when he goes to blow the remaining candles out. Suddenly plunged in darkness, they shuffle out, Grantaire following a few feet behind Enjolras. As he crosses the threshold, the blond looks back over his shoulder, eyes locking with Grantaire's.

It's colder outside than R had anticipated, goosebumps raising on his skin. Before he can do anything about it, a warm weight lands on his shoulders, and he finds himself wearing Enjolras' infamous red coat. The man in question watches him with all the intensity Grantaire dreams of, and even chuckles when R exageratedly squares his shoulders, tugging the collar up like Enjolras does when he feels especially dramatic. With a mock reverence that earns him a sigh, Grantaire is the one to offer his hand this time, adding some unnecessary flourish just because he can.

"Shall we ?"

Once again, Enjolras takes Grantaire's hand, and the world is just a tiny bit brighter thanks to that.

[dingostrash]

Somehow... Lev Lainur returned.

[sanjiafterhours]

Honestly, no one is doing it like Vinsmoke Sanji. He's royalty. He's homeless. He's a convicted criminal. He is a damsel in distress. He's a knight in shining armor. He takes down the Government at 10 am then makes a Bouchée à la reine from scratch at 11. He has the empathy of a buddhist monk in the Himalayas. He will beat up a 90 year old. He has never given a fuck, he cant sleep at night cz of how much he cares. He is a ballerina. He sets his legs on fire. He is a slut. He is a virgin. He is a feminist He is a pervert. He's a fashion icon. He wears Alexander McQueen suits to the beach. He has never known happiness. God has personal beef with him.

[the-lonelyshepherd]

literally how is it fucking real

[blorbologist]

Misc Chateau Shorthalt screengrabs because OH man, look at how happy they all are!!!!!

[vivitalks]

best types of brennan NPC

autism haver

stoner

frat bro who has unlearned hypermasculinity so hard that he's gone 100% the opposite direction about it

anticapitalist proletarian

the most insane person you've ever met

[nicktoonsunite]

Given how Miracle City is, wouldn't Manny look at the hero/villain dynamic, age difference, and similar powers, and just assume that Vlad is Danny's dad. The longer until Manny asks about it, the funnier it'd get.

HE WOULD. It's also funnier considering that's the most devastating thing you could say to Danny I think. Like if it wasn't Manny who's saying it he would've been so offended he'd launch him into space

The topic was never brought up at all (Vlad isn't an active threat nowadays and Manny only knew him because of past recollections from Danny and the others) so I can imagine Manny just sat with that assumption until one day he gets to visit Danny's parents' house and makes some offhand remark about his dad. Danny gets confused and asks what he means

Manny says smth like "are we supposed to be careful around him or is he retired now"

Danny: who do you think my dad is

Manny: is Vlad not your dad?

Danny:

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

going through my old journals as part of therapy homework and i'm reading a section written in the emotional wreckage of a full-on breakdown when i get hit with this line:

There is never a satisfying answer to ‘Why didn’t they love me?’

like wow babe. good fucking point

[sadisthetic]

the madness frustration loneliness of the dissonance of a mismatch of the rotten heart to the rest

allosexual aromantic swag happy pride *peaces out*

[keferon]

Monster hunter au part 9

I wanted to cook a bit more fluff before I get back to drama hehe

Previous Next

[puppppppppy]

act 4 :(

@chipper-smol and i came to a realization

[captainswan618]

there is a person standing 73 yards some distance away, watching you. they look like they’re trying to tell you something. you can’t get away from them, nor can you get close to them. they’re just...standing there.

so your friends and loved ones try to help you by talking to them, and the person must be saying something to them, because they look at you differently now. but you have no idea what it was, all you hear is static.

you try to tell them not to listen to the person, but no matter what you do, no matter how much you plead with them, they look up at you with suspicion-hatred-fear and just run. they don’t care where they’re going, just that you’re not there. and you can’t do anything to stop it.

the more that the people in your life care about you, the worse it is, because anyone who tries to help is turned against you. so you are just gradually shut out of your own life by the people you love the most, until eventually you no longer recognize your surroundings.

there is a person standing 73 yards some distance away, watching you.

[micamone]

hewwo

[stump-not-found]

finally got lines for the last two pages . enjoy a preview

[bixels]

tarpit site.

[swiggity-swexual-i-am-asexual]

As per usual, it’s DP crossover with (probably) DC, although you could probably adjust it for other fandoms

ANYWAYS

A little kid and his mother are trick or treating in another city, perhaps at some kind of event rather than knocking on doors, and the kid is dressed as Phantom. It’s very adorable, with his little ghost-shaped bucket and clearly homemade and already stained costume—listen, white only works if you can just fly over street grime or phase it out of your clothes—and his slightly I’ll fitting wig. The kid is SO happy to be out and about dressed as his favorite, and maybe even showed it off to Phantom back in Amity Park before his family left.

The hero, insert whoever you wish here, is probably in civvies and just enjoying the event. The kid, meanwhile, is so glad when people ask who he is so he can explain, and so- the hero gets to hear ALL ABOUT the local town hero who is probably pretty small time despite the kid’s clearly exaggerated stories. The hero certainly never heard of him, but the kid’s mom confirms that Phantom really was the town hero, despite some mixed reviews of the poor guy.

“Did you manage to show him your costume?” the hero asks.

“Yeah! We went down to the cemetery to leave flowers and I got to show him my costume.”

Wait. Cemetery? Maybe it was part of theme, because Phantom had to be named that for a reason, but… it sounded like…

The kid ignores the suddenly VERY still hero and instead turns to his mom. “Momma, do you think we should bring him candy? He doesn’t get to trick or treat like we do, and I can work super hard to get him a bunch!”

The kid’s mom just smiles. “We could, but maybe we should bring him something homemade. I bet he’d like something more filling, teen boys like him have a hollow leg.”

The kid wrinkles his nose. “Like Vernie with the pizza bagels?”

“Like your cousin, yes. We can make some cinnamon rolls and take them to his memorial, maybe bring some of the apples from your grandpa’s garden…”

The hero is pretty much forgotten as the two-part family wanders off, not quite intentionally forgetting the hero is there so much as the hero somewhat accidentally ended the conversation when they just froze and didn’t ask anything further.

Not that the hero didn’t want to. But they’d learn something very serious.

One—there was a small town hero they’d never heard of. Two—that hero was apparently a teen. Third—most pressingly, the teen hero was both beloved enough to have kids dressing up as him and dead enough to have a grave.

This… might require some phone calls.