31st August, 2014

arr0manches:

a memo: whatever you do, do not think about your otp sitting up together in the cool of the early morning, the light just beginning to seep into the shadows between the city buildings, the warmth of a kiss pressed to the corner of a jaw magnified by the chilly air, and one of them wearing the other’s shirt, one of them feeling the minute rise and fall of the other’s shoulders as they put their arm around them

do not do this

(via bricolage)

31st August, 2014

ferain1832:

The gentle spring sun shimmered on the rippled waters of the Cam, made mesmerizingly green by the surrounding willow trees. Overwhelmed by the beauty of the river but entirely at peace, Combeferre let the boat glide gently downstream, past the intricate golden walls of the colleges, past geese on the banks and ducks in the water, underneath low bridges momentarily obscuring the blue sky, onwards to oblivion and peace.

“Let me have a go,” Enjolras called out.

“In a little while.” 

It had not been an easy task, making Enjolras come with him on a short trip to England. The idea had been Courfeyrac’s to start with. It had been a long and hard winter which left Combeferre with precious little energy to run on. When, three afternoons in a row, poor Enjolras had found him asleep on his thesis instead of up and ready to collect ammunition, he must have reported it to Courfeyrac who immediately decreed a break. 

Most likely it was Courfeyrac too who persuaded Enjolras to leave his beloved France for two whole weeks. However, travelling turned out to be nothing new for Combeferre’s wealthier friend, who, he found out, had been to Italy three whole times. Combeferre himself had never set foot outside his patrie. The world was out there for him to explore and what better place to start with than England, home of the Parliament, the catocala fraxini and the steam engine?

“Say what you will, Enjolras,” he began, “but this really is a charming country.”

Enjolras shrugged his shoulders. The fresh air was good for him; a rosy glow has returned to his cheeks. “Charming, perhaps, in the same way as you say an overgrown well in a rustic village is charming. They are strange people, the English. They seem to live in a world of their own.”

This other Eden, demi-paradise,/This fortress built by Nature for herself/Against infection and the hand of war,/This happy breed of men, this little world,/This precious stone set in the silver sea,/Which serves it in the office of a wall,/Or as a moat defensive to a house,/Against the envy of less happier lands,” Combeferre recited, in his fervor only narrowly missing a curtain of willows ready to smother him.

Enjolras listened intently to the stream of English, a pleasing look of concentration on his face. To Combeferre’s delight he had progressed very well in his studies, better than the London flower girls may have thought, to whose calls Enjolras remained as deaf and dumb as if he really had not understood a word they said. 

“Precisely a demi-paradise, a fortress,” he said at last, in an accent that would have made Combeferre wince if it wasn’t frightfully adorable, “a little world, a fairytale almost. Buonaparte called them a nation of shopkeepers, that is perhaps too harsh. Yet they do not have the spirit of the French. They have settled matters with their kings and they want little else. Their constitutional monarchy suits them well; enough freedom to pretend they’re free, not too much that they no longer know what to do with it.”

“To be sure, they take the longer route to progress,” Combeferre said. “Yet there is plenty to admire here, you cannot deny that.”

“I do not,” Enjolras smiled. “I simply love my mother more.”

Indeed, to look at him, against the backdrop of the elegant but quintessentially English town of Cambridge, one could not have called Enjolras anything but the son of the mother he loved so much. He shared the blond hair and blue eyes of the English, yet his features had the keenness and esprit of the French. 

Picking up the oars in silence, Combeferre still considered his friend and the future they were swiftly gliding towards. There would be no negotiations with monarchs in Enjolras’s vision, no settlements, no compromises; nothing of the domestic and the quaint. Instead there would be dawn, sharp mountain air, sublimity, the lofty flight of the spirit towards freedom. England charmed Combeferre; France excited him. It was a Burkean contrast between the beautiful and the sublime.

“Say, Combeferre,” Enjolras’s voice broke through his thoughts. “What is the English for lâche?”

“Cowardly,” Combeferre answered, puzzled. “No, w, not v, like we’ve been practicing, and stress on the first syllable. Why?”

“That student you spent an hour talking to about Isaac Newton,” Enjolras said, “he has a friend with the most shocking opinions on France. I was going to talk to him when we come back to our lodgings and explain why he is wrong. Could you also tell me the words for mal conçu, timoré, and obséquieux?”

Combeferre sighed. The earnestness on Enjolras’s face made it clear that any attempts to talk him out of it would be in vain. 

(via Here is one.)

31st August, 2014

orlofsky:

LM 69 minute prompt day 2: favorite scene — The Back Room of the Cafe Musain 
I FORGOT TO TIME MYSELF until I’d already finished the foreground sketch; lineart, shading, and background took about 30 min. though so I’m probably within the time limit :v

orlofsky:

LM 69 minute prompt day 2: favorite scene — The Back Room of the Cafe Musain 

I FORGOT TO TIME MYSELF until I’d already finished the foreground sketch; lineart, shading, and background took about 30 min. though so I’m probably within the time limit :v

(via Needs More Research)

30th August, 2014

how is the experiment part going? is drunk writing a technique you’d recommend? (i’ve dabbled in it but mostly find that I get really unfocused. but maybe i’m not drunk enough.)

I only got mildly tipsy because drinking whiskey straight is not my thing, but I did find the words flowing more freely. XD But now it’s worn off and I’m back to editing what I’ve already written instead of writing new stuff. Alas.

30th August, 2014

elnawen:

Come back of the Apocalypse Enjolras (with a red coat because I thought it would look better, even if a lot of people are tired of Enjolras = red)
Anyway I’m really glad it’s finished because it took quite a long time and I tried some new things with SAI c: A big big thanks to dorpmayne for her help because before her it looked like shit seriously ha ha!
(Okay, yes, I admit it, the scarf was totally inspired by cy-lindric's Moonlight Beneath design. Yes. Sorry. I'll let you sleep at my place if you come one day.)
Psst.

elnawen:

Come back of the Apocalypse Enjolras (with a red coat because I thought it would look better, even if a lot of people are tired of Enjolras = red)

Anyway I’m really glad it’s finished because it took quite a long time and I tried some new things with SAI c: A big big thanks to dorpmayne for her help because before her it looked like shit seriously ha ha!

(Okay, yes, I admit it, the scarf was totally inspired by cy-lindric's Moonlight Beneath design. Yes. Sorry. I'll let you sleep at my place if you come one day.)

Psst.

(via She who brings victory)