My First Attempt On Sketchbook Express - Female Sauron In Battle. Original Design By Reforgedmairon.

finally pruned this blog down to less than 100 posts. I feel so clean and shiny and new.

on the steps of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain.

reference: (x).

in light of the “eponine teases marius with her sexuality which fits the psychology of the book, also cosette needs to not be so saccharine” interview i’d like to propose a motion to make it illegal for old men to talk about female characters in classic literature, meet me to sign the petition at 1am in andrew davies’ back yard

I just used the line “that’s not an asshole move, it’s a whole asshole ballet” and I’m kinda proud of it so it’s going here where it will get the recognition it deserves.

Won’t someone think of the children

Emma: Okay so like. The most fridge horror thing about the triwizard tournament is that they’re like “we added an age restriction!”

Emma: Not “we raised it!” Just “we added one!”

Emma: Which implies that previously, 11 YEAR OLDS COULD ENTER

Emma: Like I doubt they were ever chosen bc someone whose magical repotoir consists solely of “swish and flick” is not the best candidate for their school but what the FUCK

Meghan: AU where the Tournament happens 1st year, the other Champions are the same (17) and throw the whole competition making sure Harry doesn’t fucking die. They even let him take the Cup bc he’s so tiny and adorably earnest…

Meghan: Obviously that backfires, but Cedric isn’t dead at least.

Emma: THANKS I HATE IT

//ahhh Maryland

you little grey boring state

US Stereotype Map

Fictober Event,  The prompts for 2020

Here is the list for October this year. Write something short (or long) and tag it with #fictober20 in the first five tags. Let’s see your creativity!

“no, come back!”

“that’s the easy part”

“you did this?”

“that didn’t stop you before”

“unacceptable, try again”

“that was impressive”

“yes I did, what about it?”

“I’m not doing that again”

“will you look at this?”

“all I ever wanted”

“I told you so”

“watch me”

“I missed this”

“you better leave now”

“not interested, thank you”

“I never wanted anything else”

“give me a minute or an hour”

“you don’t see it?”

“I can’t do this anymore”

“did I ask?”

“this, this makes it all worth it”

“and neither should you”

“do we have to?”

“are you kidding me?”

“sometimes you can even see”

“how about you trust me for once?”

“give me that”

“do I have to do everything here?”

“back up!”

“just say it”

“I trust you”

This event is open to all fanfiction and original fiction.

Start October the First. You do not have to do the prompts in order. Tag your posts with #fictober20. Please state if your entry is original fiction or fanfiction and what fandom at the top. State common warnings and triggers at the top and tag accordingly. I reserve the right to not reblog fics that I find inappropriate. I will reblog things here on @fictober-event, follow this blog to see all the entries.

Go forth and write!

Photo by Vladas Kalnys on Unsplash

we’re on a mission from God. we’ve got a full timeline of the beauxbatons au valvertine fic mapped out from january 1971 through to halloween 1981, got fourteen chapters already out, three chapters fully outlined, it’s dark, and we’re wearing sunglasses.

hit it.

I was looking around my old document files and found this, and thought people might like it.

Bahorel/Prouvaire pre-slash fic beneath the cut.

--

It started out very slow.

Jehan appreciated art in all its forms. The glow of a sunset, the trill of a flute, the aroma of a bakery. So it was not surprising that, one day at the Musain with friends, he happened to notice the articulation of Bahorel’s wrist and fingers.

The man had been mid-gesture, talking with Joly about – oh, probably Joly’s mistress – and Bahorel was prone to magnificent gestures with his hands, he was probably part Italian somewhere. But for some reason, one hand landed in a beam of sunlight that had snuck through the window, and the modelling of bone and muscle and skin had drawn Jehan’s eye like one of Joly’s magnets.

They had known each other long enough that, after the meeting, when Jehan went over to Bahorel and said, rather absentmindedly, “I like your wrists. And your fingers. Reminds me of Michelangelo,” Bahorel merely laughed and ruffled Jehan’s too-long hair.

And Jehan had gone home, and sung to his violets, and written a poem about a girl that he saw in the street, and that was that.

Except that it was not.

The two of them went drinking together on occasion, and would get into ferociously animated discussions about life and death, and the afterlife, and the judgment of men. And if the flash of an eye and the curve of a smile managed to leave an after-image on the insides of Jehan’s eyelids, he certainly didn’t remember it in the morning, in the aftermath of a most excellent debate, complete with Byronic skullcups and bloodred wine.

It was during another meeting at the Musain some months later, when Jehan was in the middle of expounding upon the poetic merits of pagan mythology, that he overheard a snippet of conversation.

“ – And you never quarrel!”

“That’s part of the treaty we have made. When we made our little Holy Alliance, we each assigned our own boundary that we’d never cross. The part to the north belongs to Vaud, the south to Gex. Hence our peace.”

“Peace is happiness digesting.”

Ordinary conversation on an ordinary day, but it snagged Jehan like a splinter on a stocking – tore a tiny hole, just large enough to grow, and grow it did. Weeks afterward he found himself muttering aloud: “Happiness does not come from a social contract.”

He wondered, briefly, if the nature of romantic liaisons had any bearing on Locke’s theory.

Envy is a tenacious seed, but it was not envy that took root in Jehan’s mind. Rather, it was something else, which sprang from conversation, smiles, and the model of hand and wrist, -- and became ideas, and the flash of eyes, -- and became, over the course of slow months, something that Jehan was not entirely familiar with.

He had been in love before. The girl had been his neighbor when he was a small child, and his playmate, and they chattered about the shapes of clouds and lullabies and flowers, and made mud pies, and collected crisp fall leaves. That girl had had the clearest blue eyes, and that was why Jehan loved the sky, still: it reminded him of that first love, pure and honest as only children can be.

This was something different. This was wanting.

This is how he saves him.

Grantaire is drowning. In physical pain, in mental pain, in emotional pain, in every kind of pain imaginable. Breathing hurts. Thinking hurts. When he's drunk into nearly oblivion and he can neither think nor breathe (not properly, anyway), existing hurts. He can feel the edges of his very being trembling with the effort to not fly apart, to not dissolve into nothingness.

Enjolras is dead, and so are Bossuet and Combeferre and Feuilly and Courfeyrac and Bahorel and Prouvaire, and so it is up to Joly to save him.

Musichetta thinks Joly is dead. For three weeks, doctors thought him brain-dead, but they kept him alive anyway, in the hope he would wake up. When he did, he discovered she had left, gone back to the country. Maybe Joly needs saving, too. But he needs to save Grantaire more than he needs to be saved.

So they live -- or, they learn how to live again.

And every time Grantaire smiles, or laughs, or picks up a paintbrush (but not a bottle), he is saved.