Latest Posts by particolored-arts - Page 8

To all the women who quietly made history.

Finally, and this is important: even those women who weren’t inventors and intellectuals, even those women who really did spend all their lives doing stereotypical “women’s work”—they also built this world. The mundane labor of life is what makes everything else possible. Before you can have scientists and engineers and artists, you have to have a whole bunch of people (and it’s usually women) to hold down the basics: to grow and harvest and cook the food, to provide clothes and shelter, to fetch the firewood and the water, to nurture and nurse, to tend and teach. Every single scrap of civilized inventing and dreaming and thinking rides on top of that foundation. Never forget that. (x)

“is joly holding the bouquet?” yes

lend me your ears and I’ll sing you a song and I’ll try not to sing out of key oh I get by with a little help from my friends.

Sometimes I just take a moment to appreciate what happens just before Combeferre turns into the double-barreled fierce barricade bastard.

Sometimes I take several.

LES MIS RULE 63 Gina Torres as Inspector Javert

Some police officers have a peculiar expression, combining an air of meanness with an air of authority. Javert had this, without the meanness. 

The peasants of the Asturias believe that in every litter of wolves there is one pup that is killed by the mother for fear that on growing up it would devour the other little ones.

Give a human face to this wolf’s whelp, and you have Javert.

Javert was born in a prison. Her mother was a fortune-teller whose husband was in the galleys. She grew up thinking herself outside of society, and despaired of ever entering it. She noticed that society irrevocably closes its doors on two classes of people, those who attack it and those who guard it; she could choose between these two classes only; at the same time she felt that she had a powerful foundation of rectitude, order, and honesty based on an irrepressible hatred for that race to which she belonged. She entered the police. She succeeded. At forty she was an inspector.

Her face consisted of a regal nose, broad cheekbones, and deep brown eyes. One felt ill at ease on first seeing her thick eyebrows and strongly defined nose and lips. When she laughed, which was rarely and terribly, her voluptuous lips parted, showing her teeth. When she laughed, Javert was a tiger; strange, majestic, terrifying. Beyond that, she had an oval face, a square jaw, thick black hair that fell over her shoulders, between the eyes a permanent central crease like an angry star, a gloomy look, and an air of fierce command.

0______o

That….is sick

"He hadn't meant to pull the trigger." Isn't that how these things were always supposed to go?

But he had meant to pull the trigger. Because if he hadn't, he would have misfired. And he couldn't afford to misfire.

He'd tried to do all he could to save Courfeyrac. He and Combeferre had worked like fiends. But it had not been enough; the virus had spread, and Courfeyrac was no longer inside this shell of a creature, and there was only a split second between the creature stirring from the sickbed and the shot's report.

(Joly had always had fast reflexes. It was one of the only reasons he was still alive.)

He dropped the rifle. Bahorel picked it up, and Lesgle took his hand and murmured quiet comforting nothings in his ear, and Combeferre stepped back stricken to turn to Enjolras and could I borrow that flask a minute Grantaire.

Joly knelt next to the corpse and, with trembling gloved fingers, closed its eyes.

"I'm so sorry."

He is blindfolded. That is the first thing he registers. Then:

Footsteps.

"There's something beautiful about the body, isn't there?"

Clinking noises.

"The way everything is connected, and it all works smoothly. One flawless machine."

A small, uncomfortable, pained laugh.

"Well, not flawless. A delicate thing, the body. Easily broken. Easily -- corroded. Like silver."

Silence, then -- again, footsteps. Closer.

"But when it's healthy ..." A hand running down his chest, tracing from breastbone to navel. "When it's healthy, it's breathtaking. There is a reason we find portraits to be art, do we not? The body itself is art."

A nick, at the diagonal between neck and collarbone. Exactly forty-five degrees.

"You are very beautiful, Enjolras."

A light dragging sensation following the angle, down to the sternum. The same on the other side. Slight pressure at the vertex, running down the line the hand traced earlier. Only afterwards is the tiny sound of skin breaking registered; the blade is sharp.

"I want to see all of you."

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.

Joly and Grantaire

It was a simple drive to out to town to get some food for dinner. Joly was working so Grantaire took Angelina with him. Everything happened to so fast after that.

Joly heard about a little girl with a broken from a car accident whose Father had thrown himself over the little girl. The young Doctor’s phone rang as a nurse made the call for to the dead man’s husbands. At this realization Joly ran to Angelina’s room, she was sleeping. As he moved closer Joly could see tear stains on her cheeks.

Joly/Grantaire/Courfeyrac

They all decided Grantaire should go do the two year art studies around the world. They wrote each other, called each other, but it was never the same as when they were together. Once he had returned home things were different, Courf and Joly had grown closer obviously and it felt like he didn’t have a place anymore with them, Was this really the end?

we only bloom in the violet hour

He studies her, taking in the thin limbs and black hair and the gray bruise slanting over her gaunt cheekbone. Joly had once compared Cosette to the sun, and it strikes Enjolras now that her darker counterpart is the moon, all shadows and secret nights, with no radiance to call her own, her beauty waxing and waning until the clouds part and, for a fleeting moment, you tilt your head back and see her for what she is, and she suddenly bathes you in silver.

The beginning of Joly and Bossuet’s friendship .↓

“ If he had a mistress, he speedily discovered that he had a friend also.”

So I guess that Musichetta used to be Bossuet’s girlfriend but Joly stole her ………..At last they became the best friend .(WTF)

The spread of the black death.

His hand had slipped.

He'd been digging the bullet out of Bahorel's chest, he'd been careful, because the bullet was so damned close it could have punched right through his aorta and that would have been the end of it --

and then it wasn't the bullet, but the knife.

The knife, that Joly had trained his hands to be steady while holding, that cut through the aorta, and gave Bahorel only seconds to lift his eyes to Joly's and laugh painfully, once, before his blood finished spilling out over Joly's hands and front.

And Joly was left there, still holding the knife in his traitorous, murderer's hand, and clutching his friend with the other, too shocked to cry.

The first time they kissed was completely by accident.

Joly was mildly drunk, and Grantaire was sober for once, and Grantaire had just finished saying something about -- oh, he didn't remember, but it was nice, it was the kind of thing Joly certainly agreed with, and it was sweet.

He remembered that Grantaire had said something sweet, because that was why he went to kiss his cheek.

But Grantaire had turned his head at the very last moment, so there it was: a vaguely wine-tasting, awkwardly executed kiss.

They stayed there like that for a few moments, both nonplussed, before Joly pulled back and, blinking rapidly, took off his glasses to clean them.

"I was planning on doing that differently."

" ... Were you?"

"... I was."

"Then, here," said Grantaire, and he kissed Joly, and this time wasn't quite so awkward.

He was sixteen again, and his mother was beating him with her belt, the one she used especially for beating him, and he had had enough dammit he was tired, he'd thought it was over, he'd thought he was safe --

what a stupid thought, safety was never an option --

and he screamed in anger and pain and lashed out, because what else do you do when you think you're safe but the world is lying --

"Marcel, what are you doing?"

And it was the name his mother used, and he hated that name, felt it coating him like slime and blood and he wanted it off he wanted to claw it off he would never be clean never --

but it was different this time, the tone gentle and distinctly masculine, and the arms suddenly around him were not in a vise to hold him down, but to hold him up.

"Marcel, you're safe, no one is going to hurt you, I'm here, it's alright."

Gavroche had taken to hanging around the Friends of the ABC during their meetings, getting underfoot and being helpful or a nuisance or both, arguing with Enjolras, admiring Bahorel, delivering messages and cockades, being a snarky brat.

And falling asleep on Joly.

It was something that had happened often enough that the others joked about Joly being an especially good pillow, to which Bossuet would reply that indeed he was, to which Joly would reply with a whack of the arm and a blush.

//ahhh Maryland

you little grey boring state

US Stereotype Map

france: ten

france: twenty

france: thirty

france: forty

france: fifty

france: sixty

france:

france:

france: sixty ten

world: france what are you do—

france: four twenties

world: france stop it

france: four twenties ten

world: france that doesn't even make any sense

france:

france:

france:

world:

france:

world:

france: hundred.

Les Miserables AU || Modern || Joly & Jehan

Your beauty overwhelms me As I wrap my arms around you I press your softness tight Great passion fills my inner being I’m captured in your embrace Your eyes control my very soul The touch of your lips, heaven Forever frozen in time All else fades into nothing

Alkali metals reacting in water

If I Didn't Have You ((from Monster's Inc, of course this is perfect for them))

They had the same kind of snarky humor, and could finish each other's sentences, and if Musichetta was feeling too sick to do piecework Joly could finish repairing whatever needed darning, or if Joly was feeling too panicky to concentrate on studying Musichetta could talk him down from his panic and quiz him on course material.

They had their squabbles and their differences, but both of them knew that they worked best as a unit, belonged together. Joly was not the same as Joly-and-Musichetta, and neither was Musichetta.

Hakuna Matata

"Look, all I'm saying is that you need to loosen up a little, Inspector," said Joly, tugging at the man's sleeve. "Stop worrying about criminals for one minute."

Javert gave him a tired glare.

"You need to relax, hein? All this stress is going to do is wear you out, so that you'll be too exhausted to actually catch them. And who knows, you might actually like the opera. Give you something to hum along to when you're on a stakeout. I know it helps me when I'm studying for exams."

"No."

"Please?" He tugged harder. "Come on. No worries. Your paperwork will still be there when you get back."

The grizzled wolf let out a long-suffering growl before trotting after the puppy, who, upon discovering he'd followed, circled back to yip happily and leap up and paw at his ears.

"You'll have fun, I promise!"

Belle (This Provincial Life) (Reprise)

It seemed that no one else knew what a complete asshole Joly could be.

When he showed his teeth, it was only in a smile or a laugh. When he raised a hand, it was only for a high five. When he picked up a scalpel, it was only to dissect a corpse pinned to the paraffin wax.

But Montparnasse knew otherwise.

That was why Joly went to him, really. Because he wanted more than to be the cheerful hypochondriac. And how could Montparnasse blame him?

Everybody needs someone they can be an asshole around.

Zero to Hero

((I am lauhging so hard

crack!AUing the hell out of this))

The day Joly fell in a vat of radioactive gunk, nobody was surprised that he scrambled out screaming about germs and cancer and everybody get away I am going to infect all of you my God this is Chernobyl all over again no I'm serious get away from me

But they were surprised that he turned into a superhero.

"The Jolly Green Giant!" they called him, and he had to bellow "IT's JOLY, IT'S FRENCH, PRONOUNCE IT RIGHT, AND YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO PUT MY NORMAL NAME NEXT TO MY SUPERHERO NAME ANYWAY" because that above all else irritated him.

Éponine was his Mary Jane, his Lois Lane, but far better able to take care of herself. She kept a pocket knife on her at all times, and could hit back. Joly was rather proud of her. He hardly ever had to rescue her; she could rescue herself. Sometimes he did, though, just because he could.

Son of Man

Combeferre was one of those men who knew everything, not because he felt the need to separate himself from humanity, but because he felt the need to learn more and help humanity. So though Joly was a bit embarrassed to ask Combeferre for help with his classes, they very quickly became study partners -- and, better, they became friends.

There is a phenomenon that has been observed, in crabs literally and in humans metaphorically. When one begins to climb to the top, to freedom, others will drag it back down.

The friendship between Combeferre and Joly was the opposite.