badlesmisimaginesofficial

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In a parasocial relationship with 19th century French author and politician Victor Hugo

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a post only a single mutual could love

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someone suggested this ot3 on discord and i couldn’t hold back

[NSFW]

Imagine…

There are certain mornings when you wake slowly, the early golden light spilling into the room and flooding it until you are afloat. You collect your limbs one by one, stretching slowly, re-forming yourself into someone with human shape.

Even better are the mornings when you aren’t alone in that bed. Every room in Gillenormand’s house is lavish to the max, so there’s easily room for the three of you on the mattress. Thenardier usually wakes first, still jumpy from his criminal days. He usually calms down once he remembers where he is and that he’s safe.

You wake second, easing yourself slowly back to the land of the conscious. By this time, Nardy has got to work on your feet, his tongue delicately flicking between your toes, cleaning away any dirt he finds. It’s a delicious feeling.

Gillenormand takes the longest to stir. Often you feel bad about waking him, he looks so peaceful when he’s asleep. But there are expensive parties to throw, Pontmercys to bully and sex to be had, so you can usually bring yourself to overcome your qualms.

It’s a joint effort, usually. Nardy takes his feet, repeating the same erotic grooming as he favoured you with. You, meanwhile, slather your hands in scented lotion and go to work on his testicles, massaging them thoroughly, working the cream into the wrinkles. Gillenormand wakes gradually, but is always in a good mood when you rouse him thus.

This morning, you decide on being a little more adventurous, including a handjob in the usual nutlet massage. Nardy, too, has picked up the pace - and before you know it, you’re sandwiched between them, both men gasping as the three of you edge closer to climax.

These mornings are the best kind.  

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Imagine…

You are midway through your workout when you see him. The man is on the other side of the gym, totally absorbed in his set and utterly oblivious to any appreciative eyes turned in his direction. He is above average height, with strong, broad shoulders and a square jaw atop a muscular neck. Were it not for the lines on his face and the perfect white hair, you would assume he is a relatively young man - certainly, the amount he is bench-pressing would suggest it. But the elderly gentleman (for that is what he is) is both elderly and incredibly strong.

You have never seen anything like it before. Captivated, you hop off whatever the nineteenth-century version of a treadmill is, wiping the sweat from your brow. You are one of those rare and enviable creatures who becomes more attractive with the healthy glow of exercise. Instead of becoming sweaty and straggled, your anachronistic ponytail retains its bounce and you can feel your pores glowing with youthful vigour.

With deliberate artlessness, you make your way over to the hench old man. You’ve timed this well; he is resting between sets and wiping his brow with a small towel. The towel bears faint orange stains, traces, you realise, of the fake tan covering his face.

‘Hey,’ you say, suddenly emboldened by this discovery. Just because he’s older than Santa and stronger than an ox doesn’t mean he isn’t mortal - and no mortal creature can ever resist you.

He glances up, but there is no surprise at being addressed, merely a lazy contempt that shouldn’t be hot but kind of is. ‘Hey,’ he says, and his voice is an ageing growl.

For a second you aren’t sure what to say. This never usually happens; you’re accustomed to conversation being a breeze. But there’s something about the way the man looks at you - as if he owns you, or is appraising what it would take to acquire you - that is disarming.

‘Do you come here a lot?’ you ask. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.’

The man grunts. Up close, you can see small white lines on his face where the his wrinkles have evaded the spray tan. On anyone else it would look profoundly silly; on this man it makes you think of a tiger.

‘I normally work out at home,’ the man says, in a tone that suggests the public gym is distasteful to him. ‘However, my nephew has taken it upon himself to host Hot Yoga and I have been forced to relocate.’

‘Oh,’ you say. ‘Well, it was very nice to meet you.’

He studies you for a moment. ‘You haven’t asked me.’

‘What?’

‘How I am so strong. That’s what you wanted to say. You cannot reconcile my age with my strength. Perhaps you think there is some backstory behind it.’

You blush. ‘Perhaps.’

‘I have…’ the man pauses. ‘A very intense private workout routine.’ His eyes flick over you, and now there is a definite hunger in his expression. ‘If you are curious, I can show you.’

‘I’d like that,’ you say, noticing how your voice comes out slightly strangled. ‘I’m Y/N.’

He smiles. It is quite arousing. ‘Gillenormand. But you will call me Sir.’

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Imagine…

Marius is waiting for you outside his grandfather’s house. As soon as you descend from your carriage, he throws himself at your feet.

‘Please, Y/N! Take me back! I’ll do anything.’

You gaze disdainfully down at him. ‘Buy a new suit. No one ever mourned in green.’ And you step over his outstretched hands and into the house.

It’s getting embarrassing, his public displays of desperation. You’ll need to have a word with his grandfather’s staff about it. Clearly banishing Marius was not sufficient to keep him off the premises. Stricter measures will have to be taken.

Once you’re inside, you let out a long calming breath. The rich interior of the Gillenormand house is always soothing. Whatever political unrest upsets the streets, the wallpaper here will always be extravagantly beautiful.

‘My dear! My angel!’ Gillenormand himself appears, clad in a silk dressing gown. (You know from experience that the dressing gown is the only thing he is wearing).

‘My love!’ you exclaim. Your delight is only half-feigned. You have been running low on funds these past few weeks, and the expensive gifts that inevitably accompany a visit will be most welcome.

‘I hope my grandson didn’t bother you too much,’ he adds. ‘I have given strict instructions that he is to be kept away from the steps. Disgraceful, bothering young women like that.’

‘He has never known how to behave,’ you say, careful to avoid saying Marius’s name.

Gillenormand grunts. ‘A trait he inherited from his father.’ He reaches out a withered hand. You take it.

Life with Gillenormand is more comfortable than you have ever lived before. Indeed, it is worth everything else – Marius’s despair, Enjolras’s scorn – even Valjean’s disappointment. All had hoped to keep you for themselves, but none bar Feuilly has the funds to keep you happily occupied. (And Feuilly is too busy to bother trying. Delightful as he finds your company, he’s far too occupied trying to establish the nineteenth century equivalent of Wetherspoons).

‘Don’t worry,’ you say, linking your arm through his. ‘I won’t be troubled by him for very long.’

[badlesmisimaginesofficial]

gillenormand is my biggest hear me out

.

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All "takes" on this blog reflect real policy that will come to pass in the dark era of my rule

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it makes me crazy we never know what happened to myriel in italy like he goes there as a rakish & fashionable guy shocked by the beginning (!) of the revolution, then ...? and he returns as a priest & with the qualities we see play out in the first book. guy who loves narrative patterns & parallels voice did he have some sort of moral revelation. did he have a change of heart. did he meet someone who overturned something in him. well we'll never know bc victor hugo enjoys his little mysteries & obscured details (positive. but augh)

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still no one joining the ballsex revolution. cowards

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nvm link loaded right now

ahh glad it worked! Tbf I've not used that site before so it wouldn't have surprised me to have made a mistake somewhere

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Generate your own imaginary date! First, find out who you're seeing

and then pick an activity ⬇️

[tell me what you're doing in the tags]

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a series of unfortunate events:

pilf tells me about rarepair week, i think “ooh that’ll be fun, maybe I’ll write some crack one-shots that aren’t just imagines” and then proceed to get my dates mixed up, lose all motivation + will to live and whenever i sit at my laptop have the post-it with my new rarepair ships staring at me accusingly. 

so! we are doing headcanons, because otherwise none of them will ever see the light of day:

Valjean X Magloire

Magloire is so disturbed by this CONVICT in her house that she finds herself constantly watching him

what she doesn’t realise until he looks her dead in the eye is that there’s ANOTHER reason she’s fixated on him

she’s alarmed and enthralled at the same time

Valjean, for his part, has never really had female attention so he doesn’t know what to do about his feelings

it definitely seems like something you Shouldn’t do when a nice priest has taken you in

but the way Magloire smiles and blushes when he looks at her….

that night she’s on her way to find him as he’s leaving the house

they run into each other in the dark and immediately know there’s no point resisting

they have sweaty, passionate sex on the dining table

for a while they lie enclosed in each other’s arms but then the sun rises

and Valjean leaves

she’s heartbroken and he’s wracked with guilt

when he’s dragged back to the bishop’s house he can’t look magloire in the eye

nor can he accept the bishop’s absolution when he has this dark secret

he’s only just beginning to get over it when he encounters Fantine and the sight of a woman whose lover has abandoned her brings all the guilt rushing back

he decides to help Fantine to honour Magloire’s memory 

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readalong imagine #2

some good I mean to do

despite of mine own nature

- king lear, act v scene iii

Imagine…

Everyone is telling you not to make the journey. It is too dangerous with Cravatte on the loose, to the point where even the bravest men fear falling into his hands. The idea that you might go, as an unaccompanied young woman, is unthinkable.

You will not be dissuaded, however. God will shield you, and who needs your guidance more than the bandits themselves? You are resolved to go, and on one sunny morning you leave, mounted on a snow-white donkey.

Everyone else was not entirely off in their predictions. You have only been going for an hour when the bandits surround you, sending a shiver down your spine. You are not afraid, you insist to yourself, but there’s no denying that God is all that stands between you and them.

Well, God, and your impossible beauty.

The leader - Cravatte - approaches, pulling up his horse with a dramatic flourish. You have heard tales of his bloodlust and brutality, and expected to find a monster in need of salvation - but he is younger than you expected, and despite the hard lines of his face he is the most beautiful man you have ever seen.

‘Why, Y/N,’ he says, in a Texan drawl completely out of place in 19th century France. 'What is a little lady such as yourself doing all the way out here?’

'How do you know my name?’ you ask, and to your relief discover that your voice is steady.

'Oh, we’ve heard all about you.’ He grins, revealing perfect teeth. 'The first ever female bishop. Famed for her charity and generosity. I figured it was only a matter of time before you came out looking for some sinners to reform.’

'I don’t like your tone,’ you tell him haughtily and, gathering up the reins, nudge your donkey onwards.

'Whoa, hold up a second.’ He rides after you, catching up after a few paces. Now that you’re a little way away from the others you see his expression soften, becoming open and more vulnerable. For the first time, you realise that perhaps he is not a monster at all, but a misunderstood creature fighting to survive on the outskirts of society.

'I know I’m going to hell, Y/N,’ he says, quietly. 'Ain’t nothing you or anyone can do about that. But I like to think - well, there’s still time, ain’t there? If there’s any mercy in your heart, maybe you can show me what I can do. Maybe I can’t be a good man, after everything, but I can damn well try.’

'Oh, Cravatte.’ You feel your heart swelling at the handsome bandit’s words. 'Of course. There’s still good in you, I can see it.’

He smiles, more genuinely this time. 'You sure you’re not a saint, Y/N? Cause I think you might just perform a miracle.’

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I wish I had a recording or something of the way I laughed when I saw this. The closest equivalent I can think of is like if you were to shake a kookaburra in a bag

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badlesmisimagines x tiktok romance excerpts

the collab you never wanted or thought you deserved

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So, when Les Mis was first published, this conservative reviewer named Felix and Courtat went on a tirade against Victor Hugo’s disgustingly sensuous portrayal of Marius and Cosette’s romance. Here are some excellent quotes from his review (courtesy of a translation by @psalm22-6 ).

First, he points out that if Marius is supposed to be Victor Hugo’s self insert, this is all a big plot hole:

This reviewer begins by complaining about Hugo's fixation on virginity:

Cosette and him, who have not spoken to one another, fall into each other's arms, call each other “tu,” and they give each other a deeply loving embrace, "the ineffable first embrace of two VIRGINITIES in the ideal,” as the author so aptly puts it. After bravely embracing following the first meeting with Cosette, Marius spends part of the night with her for six weeks, alone together, in brother and sister innocence. I am absolutely ignorant of the youth of M. V. Hugo, however I would readily believe that, in Marius, he wanted to paint himself at the age of twenty. Nevertheless, I would struggle to allow that such an adventure happened to him. . . other than in a dream. His adoration of VIRGINITY, which is found in Valjean, in Javert, in Marius, in Enjolras (I am only speaking of the men), leads his pen astray. But I’m afraid to push that point.

“If Marius represents Victor Hugo, he and Cosette would NEVER be this chaste. Hugo is far too much of a slut.”

Courtat continues:

Now, I will ask M. Victor Hugo, adorer of VIRGINITY, does he think he has honored the beginning of his austere old age as a writer by glorifying sensual passion through the love of Marius and Cosette to the extent that he did? He wrote with a smugness that should make this book forbidden to young girls, and which is unworthy of a social reformer. I hate lyricism applied to the flesh (to employ the least dishonest word); with great difficulty I forgive it with young people; but my pride of almost sixty-year-old is in agony to see one of my contemporaries write of its ecstasies.

I know we’ve reached the romance chapters in the year’s @lesmisletters readalong so I want to make sure your morals aren’t corrupted 🙏

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Early stage adaptations of Les Mis be wild yall