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Bringing this back for Barricade day. Still quite proud of it<3
A Fallen Angel!Graintare au. (ao3)
Paris was loud. It wasnât the first word that had come to mind when Grantaire first saw it, nor was it the most fitting, but it captured the spirit of the city in a way that other words couldn't. At least, mortal words. It had shocked him at first, the contrasting colours, the ever changing dynamics of individuals, the living chaos. The cold, the night, the people. The latter were the loudest, they spent their life screaming. All their actions, the following consequences, the failures and successes, all echoing through history and never in the same pace. It was the mortal life, and it was deafening.
Grantaire would stand in the middle of a street, watching everyone rush past, getting from point A to point B, never stopping, never simply stand and live. Everyone had somewhere to go and no one had the time to meet the eyes of an angel.
A fallen angel, despite it all. When that fact became too much, and his ears were ringing because of the city, when the anguish of what he lost drowned him, he drank. When the languages of humans failed him, when his emotions rushed up his throat and got stuck there, when he needed some relief, he painted. That was all he did, that first year.
Then, on a night in June, he met Ăponine and the city stopped screaming. She had been walking slowly and that had been what caught his eye. She wasnât in a rush, in fact, she seemed to be trying to delay reaching her destination as much as she could. She had startled when she caught him watching her, and then she had raised her eyebrow. A dare. So Grantaire found himself in a human, and he found a friend.
It was the fact that they were three that intrigued him, because Grantaire knew that the best of things always came in three. So he had been sought them out, Joly, with his puns and worries, Bossuet, with his incredible bad luck, and Musichetta, who embodied motherhood in way Grantaire hadnât realized that he missed. But he was careful to get too close, good things came in three, not four, but Musichetta had called him out on it, Joly had hugged his arm, and when Bossuet told them of his latest accident, Grantaire laughed for the first time in years.
Jehan wasnât heading anywhere when they first met, and it almost brought tears to Grantaireâs eyes. Jehan was an unique soul, who found beauty in things no one cared or had the time to look at, and Jehan was the first person Grantaire showed his art to.
Combeferre was calm and Courfeyrac was happy. It wasnât as easy as that, Grantaire knew though, humans were always more complex than you thought they would be, but their presence brought Grantaire some peacefulness he had forgotten he could feel. Good things came in three, and even though he knew he wasnât the missing part, he loved them for letting him be the third for just a little while. Later, when Grantaire saw Combeferre get mad and Courfeyrac crying, he simply loved them more.
Bahorel had been an accident, Grantaireâs learning feet tripping on unfamiliar streets, and warm arms catching him. Bahorel had laughed, laughter coming deep from his belly and his help resembling a hug. He didnât look the part of a helper, his name didnât fit it, but Grantaire learned from him more than anyone that frightening things can be good too.
Feuilly was kind, the protector of the children and the struggling. It was the first familiar thing Grantaire had seen on Earth, the kindness and protection heâd only seen in heaven. To find it in an ordinary person, in a mortal human, had more than anything else given him hope.
Marius and Cosette hadn't even seen him when they passed, they introduced themselves later, apologizing profoundly when Courfeyrac told them they had simply passed Grantaire. He hadn't minded though, and even though he later would agree with Ăponine that it was ridiculous for two people to be so occupied with each other, Grantaire hadn't seen that kind of affection in humans before and so the two of them also got a piece of his heart.
Enjolras was loud. Their first meeting hadnât gone well, and neither had the second, or the third. Enjolras reminded Grantaire too much of what he had lost, his soul felt like the sense of heaven. He reminded Grantaire of Paris, his loud presence and never sleeping passion. But there was something in Enjolras too, that Grantaire hadnât encountered before. It wasnât his beauty, the beauty of angels, nor was it his words, for Grantaire knew better and prettier words in other tongues. It was the fact that Enjolras was so unapologetically alive, so mortal in a way that the others wasnât. That Grantaire wasnât. Which made him come back. Again and again. Until the point that they could speak without fighting, Enjolras asked for his opinion and once, when Grantaire walked through the door, Enjolras smiled at the sight of him. And just like that, Grantaire fell in love.
Love existed in Heaven too, love existed in Hell. But immortal love and mortal love are two very different things. Never before had Grantaire understood why the wars were fought, why they all went mad. Why the people had learned to love the chaos they lived, how they could live in, even fall in love with the loud cities. Because of the people they loved. Paris was still deafening but somehow, somewhere along the way, Grantaireâs friends had quited it, had brought him along, had made him a place in the chaos. Grantaire learned to live with it, some days it felt louder, some days it could barely be heard at all. And years later, when Enjolras kissed him, Paris at last was quiet.
Have I been writing? eh no. But Iâm finishing the Swedish version of high school in 45 days (aaaaah) and then Iâm going to get back into writing and I canât wait. See yall then!!
(this is mainly for myself to force myself to write because I made a promise online you know)
my pet peeve are fic summaries with something deep and obscure that not only tell me nothing about the story but dont MEAN anything theyre just words like
âWhen lost eyes lock onto a summerâs shadow, will love make it in the end?? [content warnings]: anal fisting â
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if youâre like âthis fic was posted [x] number of days/weeks/months/years ago, itâs too late to post a comment,â let me tell you. no. it is never too late to comment. maybe someone else will see your comment and decide to read it. maybe the writer will see it, maybe they wonât, but if they do i guarantee they wonât be like âwhoâs this n00b commenting on my old ficâ theyâll be like !!!! someone is reading my old stuff!!!! every time an AO3 comment is posted an angel gets its wings etc etc
writing fic is hard. rlly rlly rlly hard because thereâs this weird snobby elitism that comes along with writing and fic just doesnât make the cut. and for me, someone who has been writing their whole lives, to be able to jump into worlds i already love and play with the characters, itâs a gift. but itâs also something i feel like i have to keep a secret, like itâs weird and nerdy and perverse somehow. and obviously thatâs not true but that doesnât make me feel like i have to keep it any less of a secret
and the point of this is to say that, if someone wants to talk about fic with you, talk to them. it means they trust you with this weird nerdy secret. when someone you follow posts something, like it. hell, reblog it and add comments. go to their ask and rant about it. on ao3, comment the shit out of it. because we literally live for validation from readers, because itâs not like fic gets any love irl.
#one time a five year old asked me what the world was made of and i said ârocks and dirt and water and stuffâ#and he said âno silly itâs made of atoms!! theyâre so small we canât even see themâ#iâm never talking down to children again iâve never been so thoroughly wrecked in my entire life
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When most of the crew are dreaming in their pods, when the lights are dimmed and the only sound is the soft humming coming from the ship, he goes to her. It is only then sheâll let him into her room, her bed and through the walls around her.
Sheâs fierce, but there is a deliberate caution in the beginning, sheâs careful not to assume, not to take for granted, careful not to overstep any more boundaries than they already have. She presses her lips to his cheek, sliding her own cheek against his, her nose following his jaw before pressing kisses along it. He takes her head in his hands and kisses her.
At once there is hunger, fingers clutching his shoulders, breathing into his mouth. His hands on her waist, back, face, her gripping and pulling, pushing into him, whispering his name between her breaths. He simply holds her, his mouth keeping up with the pace sheâs setting, savoring every moment. She pulls away to catch her breath, her lips red, wet and swollen. He imagines he looks similar. He says her name and leans in to kiss her again. She smiles against his lips. At night, he loves her.
At day, there is nothing. Professional banter and mission-related questions. No secret hand holding beneath the table, no heated gazes or shy smiles. During the day, she is his commander. During the night, well, it varies from night to night who takes control. Deep down it hurts more than it feels good and he should stop it. He shouldnât let her use him to keep her bed warm, and almost ignore him during the day. But then she starts whispering his name back and itâs over. Where else could he go?
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