So, Half-Awake in a Fake Empire is giving me trouble, as in, I don't know what to do with it because my muse died. So I wrote this instead. If you wanna give me prompts, collab, etc. for Fake Empire, message me and we'll discuss. I'm a big fan of Bahorel/Éponine/Feuilly, the sole captain of this ship, so I wrote this to try and convince everyone to love it as much as I do. LOVE IT.
Rated M for sex and language.
It starts out as stress relief.
Feuilly, a shopkeeper by day and graffiti artist by night, doesn't have the most flexible schedule in the world when it comes to dating, nor is he many girls' first pick; he works too much, he smokes too much, and he spends entirely too much time in the back room of Musain, a local cafe, scheming to change the world with his best friends.
Bahorel is his roommate; he's French Polynesian by descent, six and a half fucking feet of naturally tanned muscle, scruffy and dark and insouciant. He wears weird vests that hug him like they're worried he'll leave, skips class so frequently that no one really knows if he's still enrolled, and is really into bad action movies and Game of Thrones. He's also, Feuilly realizes after a particularly stressful day, really, really good-looking.
It's been a longass day, and all he wants is to chain-smoke and take a really hot shower, but he'll settle for just the shower because he doesn't get paid for another goddamn week, and he has all of two fucking cigarettes left. He gets home, dropping his hat and coat by the door and stepping out of his work boots, before immediately turning into the living room to heat up some pizza. He finds Bahorel there, shirtless and watching Vikings, a piece of pizza in his hand.
"You're home late," he comments, before pointing at the television, "Hey, check out the monk dude, he totally looks like Grantaire!"
The monk dude whose name Feuilly can't remember looks nothing like Grantaire, but Feuilly is much more transfixed on the pizza in Bahorel's hand. "You ate my pizza?"
"Yeah," Bahorel says absent-mindedly, reaching for the remote to press the pause button. "I figured you'd eat at Musain or something."
"Bahorel, I had to work a double today. Motherfucker didn't show up. I didn't get a dinner break." Feuilly's trying to keep his voice from escalating, but he's really fed up with this day, and, yeah, he knows it isn't Bahorel's fault, but he really just needs to be angry at something.
"Well how the fuck was I supposed to know that, fuckfist?" Bahorel turns around to stare at him, dark brown eyes piercing and impenetrable. Feuilly doesn't know this, but Bahorel, too, is having a bad day. He lost a debate in class, for which he knew he would have to work his ass off to keep his grade up, was turned down by no less than three girls, and hadn't gotten to hit anyone yet as a result. It is not a good day in Bahorel world.
"You could have fucking asked," Feuilly answers angrily before moving to the refrigerator to see what other food was left.
"Don't bother," Bahorel calls. "Nothing left."
"Jesus. Well, that's just fucking Christmas, isn't it? Shit. I'm gonna go take a shower."
"You do that. And while you're at it, maybe remove that stick from your ass and stop being such a little bitch."
It's the last straw. Feuilly turns around, green eyes blazing. Bahorel looks unimpressed, but inside, Feuilly knows he's smiling. They haven't had a good fight in a while.
It ends suddenly with Feuilly's vision going white for a fraction of a second and Bahorel straddling him, panting and glistening with sweat and very much shirtless. Feuilly really cannot get over how incredibly shirtless he is. "Get off."
"Make me."
"Get off!"
"Make me!"
"I could, you know..."
"Could what?"
Feuilly hesitates a bit before answering. "Make you." He rolls his hips up, not even meaning for the sexual connotation accompanying his action, just wanting to make Bahorel squirm enough to be at a disadvantage. Bahorel's low gasp surprises him, but it also doesn't; he responds in kind, rolling his hips against Feuilly, hands still pinning his wrists to the ground. Bahorel is very much in control at this moment in time, and it's an absolute shock to Feuilly how incredibly hot that is. Feuilly tries to sit up.
"Oh, no, you don't, red." Bahorel leans down, pressing his chest against Feuilly's, and staring very long and hard into Feuilly's eyes before leaning down to lick a long, languishing line up Feuilly's neck. The sound that comes from him doesn't faze Bahorel at all; in fact, it serves only to urge him on, it seems. "Take your shirt off."
"What?"
"Take your fucking shirt off, are you fucking deaf?"
"Well, I can't very well take my fucking shirt off with you on fucking top of me, can I?" Feuilly shoots back.
Bahorel eases back a bit, sitting up so that he is perpendicular to Feuilly, and taking his hands off of Feuilly's wrists. Mistake. Feuilly shoots up, knocking Bahorel back, taking him completely by surprise. Feuilly is free, he should go run and take a shower, free from his roommate. He sits down on top of Bahorel, careful to sit directly where he's sure Bahorel needs friction the most, and leans forward to capture his roommate's lips in a kiss.
Bahorel is straight. Bahorel is completely straight. Bahorel is so incredibly straight, it hurts. But he kisses Feuilly back, groaning and panting into his mouth when Feuilly starts grinding his hot little ass against Bahorel's dick. His jeans are downright uncomfortable, and he needs to be out of them now. "Mm. Shirt off. Jeans off. Pants off."
This time, Feuilly obeys, stripping his dark blue T-shirt off, showing off his defined chest and the ginger trail of hair that leads down to where Feuilly's sweatpants are making no effort to conceal a rather apparent hard-on. He unbuttons Bahorel's jeans and unzips the zipper before standing up and pulling off his sweatpants, almost tripping in his haste to step out of them. "Jeans off."
"God, you're demanding." But Bahorel complies and leans back, pulling his jeans out from under his ass and off entirely.
The two boys shed their boxer briefs, and Bahorel takes Feuilly like a hound takes a bitch, and it's hard, it's rutting, it's fucking, it's animal, but as he finishes, instead of biting Feuilly's neck, Bahorel kisses it, groaning Feuilly's name as he does so.
It's awkward the next morning, but when Feuilly is about to leave for work, Bahorel stops him.
"Look. What happened last night happened. Personally, I thought it was really fucking good. I'm straight. You're straight. But we can be fuck bros. Ain't nothin' wrong with that. You don't suck, last night was good...no need to make things awkward or complicated, yeah?"
Feuilly agrees, obviously relieved, and the matter is dropped.
Until Feuilly gets home that night.
And the night after that.
And the night after that.
When Marius introduces Éponine to Les Amis, Feuilly doesn't pay her much mind. She isn't gorgeous like Cosette or exotic like Musichetta; she's a skinny ballerina with wild curly red hair and unforgiving hazel eyes and freckles like Marius. At first, he thinks that she's his sister. He realizes his fault when he sees her looking at Marius like a blind man seeing the sun, or like Grantaire watches Enjolras. It isn't until a party thrown for Courfeyrac's birthday that he ever really talks to her.
He's a bit too drunk and bit too stoned, and she's sitting on a staircase, a beer in her hand, wearing a black leotard under a pair of high-waisted jean shorts that have seen better days, wrapped in an off-white cardigan, hair disheveled and eyes stormy. She's watching Marius parade Cosette around, taking every opportunity to kiss her or run his fingers through her long blonde hair. Feuilly's eyes flicker back over to Bahorel, who is chatting up a girl with black hair who laughs at everything he says. He walks over to Éponine.
"Hey."
She glances up at him. "Hey."
"So...Pontmercy, huh?"
She laughs a humourless laugh. "That fucking obvious?"
"Just to the observer. Mind if I sit with you?" She gestures to the spot beside her. He sits. "Uh, so...Pontmercy. Is that why you come to the meetings?" He could kick himself for asking that. Dumbass.
"It was at first," she admits, taking a sip of her beer. "But then I met Grantaire, and he's, like, my spirit animal basically, and I met Courf, and he's just like the coolest person ever, and Musichetta's such a badass, and Joly and Bossuet are hilarious. So, I came for the freckled fuckface, stayed for you guys."
Feuilly is oddly touched, even though she didn't mention him. Weird. "So, how'd you meet Marius?"
She makes a face. "That involves talking about my family. And I don't. Talk about my family, that is."
She ends up talking about her family, and they talk for hours, staying on that stairwell past Courfeyrac and Jehan going upstairs to Courfeyrac's room, past Enjolras and Grantaire going back to Grantaire's to fuck, past Bahorel and his laughing mistress leaving to go bar-hopping, despite the fact that it is already one a.m. and they are both already sufficiently drunk. The more they talk, the more Feuilly realizes how absolutely extraordinary Éponine is, and he feels himself falling in love just a bit.
He asks her out for coffee the next morning when they wake up, she on the couch and him curled up in the fetal position right next to the couch with a blanket wrapped around him, and she accepts.
He doesn't tell Bahorel.
He really doesn't realize that he's in love with Éponine until a few months after they began casually dating. It starts out with coffee dates and walking Éponine home after meetings at the Musain, but soon he's meeting her little brother, Gavroche, a deceptively cute thirteen-year-old boy with a talent for skateboarding and a penchant for petty theft, which Éponine doesn't do much to discourage, and then, on a walk through her favorite park, the one with the freesia and lavender, the one with the rusting swing set and jungle gym, she opens up to him and shows him the scars on her wrist. He starts to reach out to touch them before backing away.
"It's okay," she says. "You can feel them."
He reaches out again and takes her delicate forearm in his calloused worker's hands. Glancing up at her to silently ask permission, he dips his head and plants a gentle kiss on each one, and when he reaches the ones closest to her elbow, accompanied by what he can tell are a few track marks, he realizes that he's crying. A tear, unaccompanied by wracking or shaking or sobbing, slips down the slope of his nose and drops, exploding crystalline onto Éponine's abused arm.
"Thank you," he says, instead of "I'm sorry" or "I love you," but she knows what he means. She pulls his face back up to hers and kisses his nose softly before kissing his lips.
It comes up months later, when Bahorel asks him to go see a movie, and he answers that he can't, he has plans with Éponine.
"Are you dating her?"
"I don't actually know. Does it matter if I am?"
"Jesus fuck, Feuilly, you know it matters."
"Why does it matter? How many times have you gone out with girls? A dozen? But now I don't get to have someone?"
"I didn't know it would bother me this much."
"I swear to fucking God, Bahorel..."
Éponine chooses that time of all times to ring the doorbell, and Bahorel stomps over and answers it, and he's glaring at her, and, despite the fact that she is exactly fourteen inches shorter than him, she glares back. "Is Feuilly home?" She's wearing a newsboy cap over her wild curls and a Joy Division T-shirt with a pair of ripped black jeans and black leather combat boots. It's ridiculous that a tiny girl who looks like Bahorel could snap her over his thigh happens to look that badass. It pisses him off. It's a well-known fact that Feuilly is very much attracted to badass.
"Jesus fucking Christ." He lets her in, and she follows him to the living room.
"Feuilly?" she says uncertainly.
"Okay. So. Here is the thing. Bahorel and I were fucking for months before I met you, and then I kind of fell in love with you, 'Ponine, and now he's pissed, though he's definitely been with a dozen girls in this time, so he really has no goddamn right to be," Feuilly explains, glaring at Bahorel.
"Like I said, asshat, I didn't know it would bother me," Bahorel shoots back.
"Wow, I really walked into a whole shitty situation, didn't I?" Éponine sounds actually bemused.
"You're making it worse, 'Ponine..."
"Wish I could say I was sorry, Feuilly."
"See, I feel like now is the moment in chick flicks where I'm supposed to choose, and all I'm thinking is that, no, I don't want to choose, I want you both."
He stops for a moment to take a breath, and that's when Éponine looks over at Bahorel. "I'll share if you'll share," she says, shrugging her shoulders.
"You're fucking with me."
"I wouldn't do that."
"Yes, you would."
"I so would. But I'm being serious. I don't mind sharing him," she says nonchalantly.
"What if I do?"
"Solomon and the baby, wouldn't you say?"
"How do you-?"
"My father was a priest for nine months once."
"What the fuck?"
"Don't judge."
"Jesus fucking Christ, guys, you're already bickering like an old married couple," Feuilly grumbles, still trying to process what Éponine is offering. The chance to have both of them. At the same time? Feuilly isn't sure.
"So, when you say sharing, you mean...?"
"Basically what Joly and Bossuet and 'Chetta have. With hopefully less hand-holding and more badass Lord of the Rings watching," Éponine explains.
"So...you and me and Bahorel. In a relationship."
"Whoa, there, no need to make it sound so official," she jokes. Bahorel stands there, face impassive.
"Bahorel?"
"Fox-face?"
"Thoughts?"
"This is absolute insanity," he says.
"Thank you. And?"
"...and if the alternative is not having you, I'm willing to try it," he admits reluctantly.
Éponine punches the air. Bahorel looks like he's about to vomit. Feuilly isn't really sure how this all happened, but now he has a boyfriend and a girlfriend. Unexpectedly.
To be honest, it isn't easy. They definitely aren't Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta. Bahorel and Éponine bicker a lot, and Feuilly has to settle the arguments a lot, because he knows, they all know, that he's the center of the relationship, that they're both in it for him and that they really only tolerate each other. His one moment of quiet is Sunday nights, when new episodes of Game of Thrones come on, and they will all quietly gather to watch it, Éponine stretched out across the couch, legs slung over Bahorel's lap, Feuilly on the floor, leaning his head back against her side.
But, Jesus fucking Christ and all his angels, if the sex isn't some of the best Feuilly has ever had. Bahorel is sexy, aggressive, and dominant, and Éponine is a dancer, flexible and inventive, and they both love Feuilly and they all love sex and they all are open to everything, and, if Feuilly knew sex could be like this, he would have gotten into this arrangement sooner.
But when his foster mother is sick, he has to leave them behind. He's worried for them, to be honest, because they've always been centered around him, as egotistical as that sounds, and they don't get along very well on their own. He trusts them though, at least, long enough to help take care of his mother.
It's Thursday when Éponine comes storming home, not even bothering to take off her dumb oversized combat boots at the door, which is a house rule, or hang up her goddamn dripping wet black greatcoat, and collapses on the couch.
"What's your fucking problem?" asks Bahorel, who is in the kitchen making a quesadilla.
"Fuck off." She sits up long enough to grab a pillow and tuck it under her head, then reaches out and grabs the remote, changing the channel from Batman Begins, which is a badass movie, to a fucking classical music channel which is playing something by Schubert. She grabs Bahorel's beer, which is on the coffee table in front of her, and takes a long swig, before lying back down and closing her eyes, massaging her temples with two long, tapered fingers on each hand.
"No, really, what is your goddamn-that's my beer. What the fuck happened today?" Bahorel walks over and sits on her legs without warning.
"Fuck you!" she spits as she sits up, trying to yank her legs out from under him. "Barbaric asshole."
He stands up just enough so that Éponine can get her legs out from under him. She curls up in the fetal position facing the inside of the couch and is quiet for a few minutes. They listen to Schubert in silence. Bahorel eats his quesadilla and washes it down with his beer. The Unfinished Symphony is almost over when Bahorel glances over at the tiny girl beside him and notices that she's shaking silently. "Hey...hey. You okay?"
"What do you fucking think?" and, yes, she's definitely crying. He sets down the paper towel and wipes his hands on his jeans before reaching over to her. She doesn't flinch away from him when he places his hand on her arm and strokes gently with his thumb in what he hopes is a soothing manner.
"Do you wanna talk about it?" She doesn't answer, but she sits up. Her mascara is streaking down her face and her eyes are red. "C'mere." She hesitates before coming closer. He wraps his arms around her and hugs her awkwardly, her arms trapped at her sides. "Let's talk about it," he says, because that's what Feuilly always says when one of them has a problem. He lets her go.
"I'd rather not."
"It's good for the soul. Cathartic, if you will."
"Sometimes I forget that you're actually smart," she says without malice, as if she's stating a fact. "Okay. Um. Auditions for the university's production of Giselle were two weeks ago, and we got the results today, and my ballet teacher told me that I was wonderful and that I was being considered for the lead." She stops for a second, wiping a tear away furtively. "I didn't even make the ensemble."
Now, Bahorel knows absolutely nothing about ballet or dance majors or show business. But Bahorel knows a little something about rejection. Bahorel knows a lot about rejection, to be perfectly fucking clear. Bahorel's father left when he was ten; the son of a bitch waited until he knew he was leaving Bahorel's mother with five sons before he walked out. High school sucked because he was a different color and he was intelligent but fucking huge, and what can you do with a nerd you can't beat up because he's a foot taller than you and about fifty pounds brawnier? You can bet that you'll make his life a living hell. Bahorel scares people even now, and he's used to people pre-judging him, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt just a little under all the Fight Club references and the permanently damaged knuckles. So, yeah, Bahorel and rejection are quite familiar with each other, and it's this old familiarity that influences his next action.
He gently takes her chin and tilts her face up slightly and plants the softest of kisses on her chapped lips. And maybe it's the shitty day, maybe it's that Feuilly's been gone for so long and they're both desperately horny, but she kisses him back harder than he kisses her. He makes a surprised noise, but leans forward to return her fervor. He's still cupping her chin, but his other hand is tangling itself in the impossible flame of her hair, and her hands are yanking his T-shirt up so that she can run her hands along the planes of his chest.
Bahorel surfaces long enough to get out, "Bed?"
"Definitely." And then her mouth is on him again, kissing, nipping at his lower lip, kissing along his jawline and rubbing his scruff against her pale cheeks. When he finally pulls away, which is difficult, because the things she is doing with her tongue should be illegal and probably are in some countries, it's only to turn towards the bedroom, Feuilly's bedroom, which has sort of unofficially become the bedroom. He opens the door, and Éponine smacks his ass before giggling and jumping onto the bed, turning around and beckoning to him. He obeys, mesmerized. Most of the times when he, Éponine, and Feuilly had fucked before, he had been paying the most attention to Feuilly; he had never noticed how incredibly enticing Éponine was, from her disheveled hair, one step away at all times from sex hair, to her intense, piercing eyes (and Doreah was right, love does come through at the eyes), to her lithe dancer's body.
He helps her pull her turtleneck off and waits patiently as she unsnaps her bralette before running his tongue up, down, and all over her torso. Though no more than a handful, her tits are supple and perky and pale, like the rest of her, and, to Bahorel, they are absolutely perfect. He worships her right nipple with his tongue, flicking the other one lightly with his index finger, before switching, stopping only when Éponine is breathless from gasping. He leans back, pupils dilated, and pulls his shirt off in one clean motion, bringing his body crashing back down on Éponine's, relishing in the delicious skin-on-skin friction. Éponine wraps her legs around Bahorel's waist and laughs into his mouth. "You're hard enough to cut diamonds. Those jeans can't be comfortable. You should definitely take them off."
"As you wish," he says, pulling back again, unbuttoning the button and unzipping the zipper, and pulling down the jeans to his knees, before awkwardly leaning over to get them all the way off. She uses the time to pull off her pair of black leggings ("Those aren't actually pants, 'Ponine..." "Shut the fuck up.") She's not wearing underwear, and Bahorel is so horny and so impossibly hard. Really, it's painful.
"Boxers off, condom on, quick as you like," she smiles, but it's not a nice smile.
If there's one thing Bahorel doesn't go for, it's being told what to do. He shakes his head before running his fingers down Éponine's stomach and stopping right over her clit. She laughs but squirms a bit. "No, 'Ponine. Not until you can't beg anymore." She shivers and he takes the opportunity to take one finger and ease it slowly into the hot, wet opening between her legs. She smiles and lets her head fall back, eyes closing shut. He quickly pulls the finger back out, and her head shoots back up.
"Hey!"
"Patience." He smirks and kisses along the inside of her thighs, nipping lightly and licking, touching her everywhere except for where she needs to be touched the most. It's a trick that always works with Feuilly, and Éponine is no different. Must be a ginger thing.
"Bahorellll," she says, drawing out the last syllable of his name.
"The more noise you make, the longer I'll take," he whispers before letting the tip of his tongue dart out and lick just the tip of her clit. She thrusts upward but doesn't make any noise. "Good girl." He repeats the process again and again until she's falling apart underneath him. He finally sheds his boxers, pulls out a condom from the drawer of the night stand beside the bed, rolls it on, and positions himself at Éponine's entrance. "Ready?"
"Just fucking do it!"
He does it, and the noise Éponine makes is worth all the teasing and waiting. He slowly pulls back out, then eases back in.
"Faster, harder, whatever, you fuckface," she snarls, and he grins and goes slower, enjoying the expression on her face. He's not prepared for what happens.
Moving quickly, more quickly than he could have anticipated, Éponine sits up, grabs his hip, and shifts him, using his weight against him so that he is lying on the bed, and she is straddling him. "Did you learn that from Game of Thrones?" he asks as she positions herself.
She smiles coyly. "Out there, you are the mighty Khal, but in this tent, you belong to me."
"Fuckin' hell, you're sexy." And then she's moving her hips and riding him, and he can't control the sounds that are escaping his mouth. It's unexpected. Bahorel has always, definitely, 100% been a top. But in this moment, with Éponine on top, he can feel a change in the chemistry between them. She feels it, too, he can tell; she slows her motions and directs her piercing gaze into his eyes, and this is unlike anything that he's had with Feuilly or anything else, and it's one of the best things that's ever happened to him. Face framed by a copper halo, skin glistening ever so slightly with sweat, lips swollen and parted, breasts bared, nipples pert, she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
When he finishes, instead of calling out Feuilly's name, it's her name she calls, and, though she's not particularly vocal when she climaxes, he can feel the energy directed towards him. She kisses him softly and crawls under the sheets with him; they fall asleep, Bahorel on his stomach and Éponine tucked partly beneath him.
When Feuilly gets back from his mother's, the bickering has almost ceased, except for the occasional, "Cersei Lannister is the goddess of perfectly written misunderstood antagonists, and if you disagree one more time, I'm going to feed you your own innards, you little shit!" He doesn't know what's happened, and they never bring it up. All he knows is that it's so much easier to love them both, and, if it's possible, they all seem to love one another in their own ways; they become less of "Feuilly, Bahorel, and Éponine" and more of a menagerie. And it's wonderful.