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poetrysmashparty · 2 years

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An Interruption

For Poetry Smash Week 2022

Day 4: Art

(Disclaimer: I am aware that the prompt most likely didn't refer to prose writing, but as I cannot draw, I don't have the time to do a painting, and I'm not a poet or a playwright, here we are)

Jean Prouvaire lounges on the settee in Grantaire's lodgings, nude but for a crown of cornflowers and a bundle of leaves laid carefully across his groin. The other man stands above him at his easel, having removed all but his shirt and small clothes.

Prouvaire knows he ought to be scandalized, but he has seen his friend in far less, and in far more compromising positions. His foot twitches at the thought, and Grantaire clears his throat.

"I asked you not to move, Prouvaire."

"As if one twitch of my foot will mar your painting of... What was it, again?"

"Hermes, Ares, Ariadne, and Dionysus, I told you..."

"Oh, yes, that particular grouping surely is not referential in any way. Though I must say, I fancy myself far more of an Apollo than a Hermes. His description in the myths is much closer to a description of our Enjolras, do you agree?"

"Hermes? Perhaps." Grantaire taps the handle of his paintbrush against his nose repeatedly.

"I must confess, I have let myself go lax in my readings of the myths. Lesgles and Joly have convinced me to step away from my books recently, and accompany them to balls and plays. I attempted to protest, having no partner to bring along, as Renée is off visiting her parents for the summer, but they insisted, and Bahorel-"

The door slams open, then, revealing Bahorel fresh from a brawl, bruised and bloodied, yet with a wide smile stretching across his face.

"Speak of the devil and he shall appear - or in this case, the god, I suppose," Prouvaire says, arching his back and tilting his head to look at his lover.

Bahorel lumbers through the room and plants a kiss on Prouvaire's forehead. "Grantaire, you should have accompanied me at the Corinthe tonight!"

"And come away looking like that? I may enjoy boxing, but not brawling, and when Renée returns to Paris, I would like to be able to smile at her with all of my teeth."

Prouvaire readjusts himself and leans off the couch, trying to catch a glimpse of the painting. "And speaking of our resident Ariadne, has she written you since she left?"

"She is doing well. They need her help at home with the harvest, but come September, she should be back with me."

Prouvaire's eyes flick to the painting of Renée hanging by the door, and he frowns. "You must miss her."

Grantaire nods and dips the paintbrush into a canister of yellow paint. "Enough about my life, though. Bahorel, my friend, what sort of trouble have you found yourself in this time? And, do you need me to send for Joly or Combeferre?"

"No, I believe I will be alright. May I use your washbasin, though?" Bahorel asks.

Grantaire nods and continues to paint, his tongue slightly sticking out. "It is in my bedroom, Bahorel."

"I want to see it," Prouvaire says in a whining tone, shifting about on the settee. "Grantaire, it's been five hours, surely you're almost done! I saw it before we began. All you had left to do was to paint in Hermes."

Grantaire looks between him and the painting, frowning. "Alright," he says after a moment's pause. Prouvaire stands and makes his way to Grantaire's side, his jaw dropping slightly upon seeing the painting.

In it, Prouvaire and Bahorel, stylized as Hermes and Ares, sit side by side, hands clasped tightly. Beside them, Dionysus reclines against a tree, a mirror image of the man standing beside Prouvaire now. Renée, painted in Greek costume as Ariadne, sits beside him, a bunch of grapes in her lap. The four of them are painted outside, in an idyllic meadow on the edge of a forest.

"Grantaire, this is lovely," Prouvaire breaths. Grantaire smiles in turn and continues, adding wildflowers to the meadow in the form of tiny blotches of paint.

There's a noise behind them, and both men turn to see Bahorel, now cleaned up and wearing fresh clothes.

Prouvaire quickly crosses to his side, and looks him over quickly. "Are you alright?" he asks in a soft voice.

Bahorel nods and pulls him into an embrace. "I am, though right now I simply wish to go home. Shall we?"

Prouvaire nods and quickly dresses, then turns to Grantaire. "I will see you tomorrow in class?"

Grantaire nods absently as he puts the finishing touches on his painting. Prouvaire smiles and sets his crown of cornflowers on the table, then exits after Bahorel.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Prouvaire asks, leaning on his cane as the two men make their way back to their own lodgings.

"I believe so," Bahorel says in a soft voice, ignoring the worried look that Prouvaire casts his direction.

The remainder of the walk home is spent in silence, but as soon as they are alone and the door is locked, Prouvaire asks Bahorel to remove his clothes.

"Only to check you over, my love. You are in no fit state for any other... activities."

Bahorel frowns but complies, and Prouvaire quickly examines him for any hidden injuries. Once he's sure Bahorel is alright, he sinks onto the canapé and lets out a heavy sigh.

"What's the matter?" Bahorel asks, settling down beside him.

"Please do not take this the wrong way. Grantaire is dear to me, but after five hours, it will be good to have a conversation that does not consist of constant references to the Greek tales."

Prouvaire closes his eyes and curls into Bahorel, a small smile forming on his lips as the older man pulls him in close. "I simply wish to rest now, and enjoy your company, my darling."

Bahorel chuckles softly and pulls Prouvaire into his lap, his lips brushing against Prouvaire's forehead. "That sounds delightful. Perhaps you can show me the newest poem you've been writing as well."

"Later," Prouvaire declares, resting his head on Bahorel's chest.

Later, there will be time for poetry, but for now he only wishes to feel the steady rise and fall of Bahorel's chest as he slowly drifts off to sleep.

#poetrysmashweek2022 #poetrysmashweek #fic #canon era fic #ships ahoy #thank you!

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poetrysmashparty · 2 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Bahorel & Jean Prouvaire, Bahorel/Jean Prouvaire Characters: Bahorel (Les Misérables), Jean “Jehan” Prouvaire Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - World War I, Trench Warfare, Developing Friendships, Stargazing, Poetry Smash Week Summary:

It’s not unusual for men to keep a diary here, though there’s little enough to write about most days. It passes the time, and gives some form to the otherwise indistinguishable days and nights. Perhaps he’s writing a letter to his family, or to his sweetheart - he seems the type to have a woman waiting for him back home, quiet and unassuming and ordinary.

Except the lines he forms with his words don’t have the shape of a love letter to them; they have the shape of poetry. @poetrysmashparty

#poetrysmashweek2022 #WWI AU

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poetrysmashparty · 2 years

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I meant to share this for poetry smash week but I forgot, anyway, check out my poetry smash playlist!

While you are at it, maybe check out my Jehan and Bahorel playlists

#playlists #poetrysmashweek2022 #thank you!

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poetrysmashparty · 2 years

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jam sesh w the besties :3 happy poetry smash week

#poetrysmashweek #poetrysmashweek2022 #thank you!#art #canon era #jam sesh!:D

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poetrysmashparty · 2 years

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Ethereal

For Poetry Smash Week 2022

Day 5: Mythic

Jehan sits by the edge of the forest pool, singing softly to himself, his flute laying on the stone beside him. He can hear the beats of a horse's hooves nearby, striking the earth as the rider travels through the forest.

Soon enough, they will be upon his pool, and him as well. He has read the stories that the humans write, of heroes and monsters and love and battle, and he wonders if a man ever would dare go to war for his sake.

With the advent of the new religion brought by the Romans, beings like himself have slowly become twisted in the minds of humans as to be demonic and evil, but nothing could be further from the truth.

He simply is, and will always be.

He turns and watches as the horse and its rider appear at the hollow where he rests.

The rider dismounts and removes his helm, then makes his way to the edge of the pool, releasing the horse's mane to allow him to drink.

Jehan has hidden himself behind a tree, but as the knight kneels by the water's edge and cups his hands to take a drink for himself, he finds himself watching from behind a tree.

The knight straightens up after a moment, and looks around. Jehan freezes in place as their eyes lock. Before the knight has a chance to move, he darts into the forest, feet skimming against the mossy earth.

"Wait!" the knight calls from behind him, and Jehan finds himself slowing. The clinking of mail comes from behind him, and Jehan stops, ducking behind an ancient oak tree.

"I mean you no harm, fair maiden. I simply wished to water my horse and myself," the knight says.

Jehan takes a deep breath. "I am no maiden, brave knight." He hears a gasp from the other side of his tree, and he peeks around, catching the knight's eyes.

He is taller than Jehan, and incredibly muscular in comparison to Jehan's willowy frame, and Jehan finds himself staring.

"Do you like what you see?" the knight asks, a smirk clear in his voice. Jehan nods without thinking.

"My name is Bahorel, and I am a wandering knight. And yours, sweet waterlily?"

Jehan blinks at the strange pet name. "Jehan. Simply Jehan."

Bahorel nods and approaches, gently taking his hands, and Jehan finds himself drawn to the man. "I will return in four days' time, Jehan, and I will bring you anything you desire."

"Stories. Please," Jehan asks, looking up into the knight's soulful brown eyes. His own - solid green-blue, even where human eyes would be white, must look unsettling to Bahorel, but he does not seem to care.

He wonders if Bahorel knows what he means by stories. The knight cannot bring him books, he knows that much, but if he had heard any new stories from the human poets, perhaps Bahorel can recite them for him.

Bahorel nods, seeming to understand. He presses a chaste kiss to his lips, then turns away. "Four days, do not forget."

~~~

Four days pass, and Jehan emerges from his pool at the first sound of hoofbeats. It is still early in the morning, but he has found himself looking forward to the knight's return.

Sure enough, the same horse comes up the path, bearing the same rider. Bahorel dismounts and removes the saddlebags, then approaches Jehan, leaving the horse to graze.

"Good morning, waterlily," Bahorel says, sitting down on the ground.

Jehan sits beside him, watching Bahorel dig about for something in his bag. He retrieves a loaf of bread, some cheese, and two apples, and Jehan looks at the selection curiously. "What is this?"

"It is food, so that you may eat while I tell you a new tale I have heard in the court I am employed by. A new poet, Crestien de Troies, has joined us there, and written a tale called Érec et Énide."

Jehan nods and picks up the loaf of bread, tearing off a piece and looking at it hesitantly before eating. "I should like to hear it."

He continues to eat, saving half of everything for Bahorel, and once he is full, he curls up against the human man's side and simply listens to him recite.

~~~

Weeks pass in this manner, all through the summer, and when autumn comes, Bahorel continues his weekly trips to the pool, though Jehan is beginning to prepare for the freeze. They sit by the edge of the pool, both resting their feet in the water, and Jehan rests his head on Bahorel's shoulder.

"What happens during the winter?" Bahorel asks, his arm wrapped around Jehan's waist, holding him close.

"I go to the bottom of my pool, along with the fish, and when it freezes over, I cannot leave until the thaw."

"And if someone were to break the ice, freeing you?"

Jehan gives Bahorel a panicked look. "Please, do not! I beg you... This cycle is necessary, and come spring, I will return, and I will still be yours."

Bahorel nods slowly and leans down, kissing Jehan softly. "I trust you, my love. I will visit, as much as I can, even if you cannot see me."

Jehan nods and returns the kiss, drawing Bahorel down to the earth and allowing himself to be taken.

Winter comes, and at the coming of the first blizzard, Jehan begins to prepare himself for hibernation.

Bahorel, in the meantime, sequesters himself in the castle in which he lives, and prepares himself for the loneliness of the coming months.

The lord he works for tries unsuccessfully to offer him women from the town as wives, but he declines each one, for reasons unknown to anyone but him. But as the snow melts and the frost recedes, Bahorel knows the time he has been waiting for is coming.

When the flowers begin to blossom on the trees, he leaves once more, heading straight to a pool deep in the forest.

"I thought you would not return," Jehan says, sitting at the edge of the pool, feet in the water as he braids rose blossoms into his hair.

"Nothing could keep me from the man I love." Bahorel sits beside him and removes his shoes, plunging his feet into the still-cold water. "I have a question for you, as well. Allow me to pass you off as a woman, and wed you."

Jehan looks at him thoughtfully. "If I accept, I will lose my immortality... But spending the rest of my life with you will be worth it. Yes, I will marry you."

Bahorel smiles and pulls Jehan into his lap, kissing him passionately. "I love you, my waterlily."

"I love you, my brave knight."

#poetrysmashweek #poetrysmashweek 2022 #thank you!#mythic AU

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poetrysmashparty · 2 years

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More Than I Already Do

It's Poetry Smash Week, which is always a fun opportunity to me to write something different (not that we don't love E/R, because we do, but every now and then it's good to mix it up).

Modern AU, established Jehan/Bahorel, cw: homophobia, cw: mild violence, but I swear it is not as serious as that makes it sound.

When Combeferre walked into the back room of the Musain, the last thing he expected to see was Bahorel, hunched over and glaring at his phone as if it had personally wronged him. “You looked troubled,” Combeferre remarked as he set his bag down.

“I am trouble,” Bahorel grumbled, not looking up.

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “I said troubled, not trouble,” he said, pulling the papers he needed to grade out of his bag before amending, “Though the latter is probably true as well.”

Bahorel sighed and tossed his phone down. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

Combeferre’s curiosity was piqued. “Like what?”

Sighing again, Bahorel scrubbed a hand across his face before asking Combeferre plaintively, “You know how Jehan gives the best, most thoughtful gifts?”

Considering that for his most recent birthday, Jehan had given him a violently pink silk scarf printed with equally neon green and orange moths, Combeferre wasn’t entirely sure that ‘best’ was the word he would use. “You and I may have differing definitions of thoughtful,” he said under his breath.

Bahorel glared at him, clearly picking up on a perceived slight against Jehan. “I didn’t say they were practical,” he said, his voice practically a growl. “But you can tell how much effort he puts into every gift that he gets.”

Combeferre held his hands up defensively. “That is fair.”

Bahorel’s expression shifted and he sat back in his chair, something like a pout in his voice as he told Combeferre, “Well, I want to finally, finally beat him.”

“Beat him?” Combeferre repeated, slightly incredulous.

Bahorel nodded. “Yeah, I want to give him a gift that will blow his out of the water.”

There were a great number of follow up questions that Combeferre had to that, and he decided to start with the most obvious: “Dare I ask what holiday you’re exchanging gifts for?”

“Lúnasa,” Bahorel said, and at Combeferre’s confused look, elaborated, “Celtic harvest festival. Tokens of love being exchanged is apparently part of it.”

“Do I need to point out that neither you nor Jehan are Irish?”

Bahorel waved a dismissive hand. “No, but the festival falls during August which is also when National Couples Day falls, and I’m pretty sure Jehan wants to pretend we’re doing this for the former rather than the latter, so.”

Combeferre nodded slowly. “That tracks,” he said. “And, let me guess, you’re thus far not coming up with anything that will put his gift to shame?”

“Not so much.”

Combeferre sat down in front of his stack of papers, carefully avoiding meeting Bahorel’s eyes as he said, “Maybe that’s for the best. I mean, shouldn’t gift giving be about love and not competition?”

“It is about love,” Bahorel said, the growl back in his voice, though when he spoke again, there was something almost longing in his tone. “I just want him to look at what I got him and for him to think, ‘wow, I thought I couldn’t love you any more than I already do, and yet’.”

Combeferre’s expression softened. “That’s actually very sweet—”

“And then I want him to feel the inadequacy I’ve felt for the past two years when he thinks of his own pitiful gift for me,” Bahorel finished, with no small amount of glee.

“And that’s somewhat less so,” Combeferre said with a sigh. He glanced over at Bahorel. “So, what, you’re hanging around here hoping inspiration will strike?”

Bahorel shifted, something like guilt flashing across his face. “Not quite. I was actually hoping to run into, um, Courfeyrac.”

Combeferre’s eyes narrowed. “I see.”

“Not that you’re not also helpful, in your own way, but Courfeyrac…”

Bahorel trailed off and Combeferre sighed, well aware that Courfeyrac outpaced him in several areas, most of them related to the realm of romance. “Might be one of the best gift-givers of all time,” he finished.

“Second to Jehan, at the very least,” Bahorel said loyally.

Combeferre just shook his head, having long since resigned himself to the fact that Courfeyrac gave amazing gifts. “You know, one year, Courfeyrac bound some essays that Marius had translated. I think Marius actually cried when he opened it, though that may say more about Marius than Courfeyrac’s gifting abilities—”

Bahorel practically leapt to his feet. “That’s it!”

“What’s it?” Combeferre asked blankly.

Bahorel rushed over, grabbed him by both shoulders and then kissed him on each cheek. “Combeferre, you’re a genius!”

“I – thank you?” Combeferre managed as Bahorel released him before practically sprinting to the door. “Good luck!” he called after him, shaking his head as he finally settled into his work.

— — — — —

“Hello,” Jehan said, his voice low in Bahorel’s ear, and Bahorel tipped his head back to give Jehan a kiss.

“Hello to you, too,” he murmured, smiling as Jehan slid into the seat across from him at their usual sushi place.

Jehan smiled as well, though he also pouted, just a little, as he said, “Where have you been? I feel like I haven’t seen you all week.”

Considering they had spent at least an hour together that very morning, almost making both of them late for work, Bahorel took it as the hyperbole it was. “I know, I’m sorry. I had some running around that I was doing.”

Jehan’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of running around?”

“The kind that involves you getting a present at the end.”

Jehan grinned. “Oo, I like that kind.”

Bahorel laughed. “I figured as much.”

The waitress came to take their order and bring the bottle of wine that Bahorel had ordered while waiting, and he busied himself pouring them both glasses as Jehan said, “But don’t tell me you actually spent all this time getting me a present.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Bahorel asked, handing him a glass of wine.

“Not bad,” Jehan hedged, taking a sip, “but I just don’t want you to feel like you have to go to any great lengths for me.”

Bahorel rolled his eyes fondly. “I don’t have to, but I want to,” he said, reaching across the table for Jehan’s hand. “You deserve great lengths, and poetry, and all that good shit.”

“All that good shit,” Jehan repeated with a smile. “You certainly know how to spoil me.”

Bahorel raised his hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles. “I try.”

Jehan cleared his throat. “So speaking of presents, I actually have some bad news on that front.”

“Oh?”

“Yours will be late,” Jehan said with a somewhat rueful sigh. “It should be here by the end of the month, so technically still during the festival, but obviously not here for our gift exchange tonight.”

He sounded genuinely disappointed, and Bahorel squeezed his hand. “Supply chain issues?” he suggested with a smile to try to cheer Jehan up.

It worked, as Jehan laughed. “Something like that, anyway,” he agreed.

“Thanks, Obama.”

Jehan wrinkled his nose. “Someday someone is going to overhear you say that and they’re going to think that you’re serious. Or worse, they’ll agree with you.”

“And in that case, the only they’ll be getting is my fist in their face,” Bahorel said sweetly.

Jehan shook his head fondly. “Be gay, do crimes?”

“Be gay, do crimes, punch fascists,” Bahorel corrected.

Jehan grinned. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Bahorel squeezed his hand once more before releasing it in favor of picking up his wine glass, taking a swig before saying, “Anyway, I promise I’m not too broken up over my delayed gift, but does this mean you want to hold off on me giving you yours?”

Hesitation played out across Jehan’s face. “I mean, only if you want to. I know it’s not fair that I get a present and you don’t—”

“You and I both know that every day I get to spend with you is a gift in and of itself,” Bahorel told him, immediately making a face at the words, his expression mirrored on Jehan’s face. “Too much?”

“Just a little bit,” Jehan agreed.

Bahorel laughed. “Sorry, I’ve clearly been spending too much time with Grantaire.”

“Not touching that with a ten foot pole,” Jehan murmured, “so instead I will delicately and deliberately bring the subject back around to my present.”

“God, you’re so greedy,” Bahorel said fondly, picking up the gift from where he had stashed it under the table and sliding it across to Jehan. “Here. And not to be too sappy yet again, but I hope it can help inspire you the way that you inspire me.”

Sappy was an understatement, given the way his voice got a little misty at the end of that sentence, and Jehan looked at him with wide, soft eyes. “Bahorel—”

He seemed to think better of whatever he was about to say, instead tearing the wrapping paper off of the gift, a hand flying to his mouth when he saw the soft, scarlet leather-bound book inside. “I collected some of your poems and had them bound,” Bahorel told him, his voice low, and when Jehan just stared at it, he cleared his throat. “I hope it’s ok, I know I’m not exactly an editor so I just kind of went with my favorites in no particular order.”

Jehan thumbed through the book, stopping occasionally to trace his fingers over a poem. When he looked up at Bahorel, he was beaming, his eyes wet with tears. “It’s beautiful, thank you.”

“And, uh, at the end…”

Bahorel trailed off as Jehan immediately flipped to the end. “You wrote me a poem?” he asked, staring up at him.

“Well, kind of,” Bahorel said with a shrug.

Jehan just shook his head. “There’s no ‘kind of’ when it comes to poetry,” he informed Bahorel, before reading what Bahorel had written out loud.

“My dearest Jehan,

I wanted to write you a poem I thought about a sonnet or haiku But there’s so many rules And you know how I feel about rules

Rhyme scheme isn’t my thing either I end up sounding like Dr. Seuss (Or Grantaire after one too many whiskeys) And I want to give you more than that Because you deserve more than that

Your love inspires me In ways I can’t even begin to name Let alone capture in a poem No matter how hard I tried

(And believe me, I tried)

Your hands were made for writing beautiful words Mine were made for punching faces Which is why we’re so perfect together More perfect than I can explain

So even if I never find the words I promise I will do my best to show you Each and every day Just how much I love you

All my love, Bahorel”

Jehan was silent for a long moment after he finished before he finally looked up at Bahorel. “This is so—”

“Fucking gay,” some guy said loudly from a nearby table, and Bahorel whipped his head around, his fist immediately clenching.

“Excuse me?” he said coldly, and Jehan reached out to lay a hand on top of his fist.

“Don’t,” he murmured, quiet so that only Bahorel could hear. “He’s not worth it.”

But the gentleman – and Bahorel used the term extremely loosely – wasn’t done. “You heard me, queer,” he sneered, his face red with the alcohol he had clearly been overserved. “I’m out here trying to have a nice dinner with my wife, and we shouldn’t be forced to listen to that shit.”

His wife, for her part, looked partially terrified and mostly like she wanted to crawl under the table and disappear. Jehan lifted his chin defiantly. “And we shouldn’t have to listen to your homophobia, yet you’re still talking,” he said coolly.

“I have the right—” the guy started hotly, and Bahorel snorted.

“Yeah, well, so do we.”

He started to turn back to Jehan but the guy snarled, “Not for long, with any luck.”

Bahorel was so tempted to suggest the guy meet him outside, but Jehan’s cool fingers pressed against his, and Bahorel took a deep breath. “You’re lucky that my boyfriend really loves this place because on any other day, I would gladly take a lifetime ban for brawling if it meant giving you just a taste of what you deserve.”

“Yeah and I guess your boyfriend’s lucky that he has a big, strong man like you here to protect him,” the guy sneered, which was a hilarious statement in and of itself, as if Jehan needed anyone to protect him. “I wouldn’t want to be him walking late at night by himself.”

Jehan looked almost amused by that statement, as well he should. Anyone who thought Jehan was timid, or an easy target, had another think coming.

Just one of the many, many reasons why Bahorel loved him.

So he forced his fist to unclench and he turned his back fully on the guy, ready to resume their conversation, but the guy had to try to get the last word in. “Fucking pussy,” he spat. “I bet you don’t even have the balls.”

Jehan’s eyes flashed and he was out of his seat before Bahorel could even so much as turn around. “I’ve got this,” he told Bahorel before practically sashaying over to the man’s table, a horrible grin on his face. “Hi, thank you for ruining our evening,” he said, saccharine sweet, “but since it’s already ruined, I’ll have you know as someone who has seen his balls quite a few times, I’m certain they’re far bigger than yours will ever be. And also—”

Without warning, he decked the guy directly in the face, his fist making a satisfying crunch as it collided with the gentleman’s nose. The man let out a howl of pain as Jehan finished cheerfully, “—I don’t like this place as much as he seems to think I do.”

With that, he turned on heel, tossing some money on the table to cover their wine before holding his hand out to Bahorel. Bahorel took it, unable to stop his grin at how amazing Jehan was, at how, even when Bahorel thought he couldn’t possibly love him more—

His expression fell as realization hit that he was feeling exactly what he had wanted Jehan to feel. “God fucking damnit,” he muttered to himself with a scowl.

Upstaged again, and this time not even by a gift.

“What?” Jehan asked, glancing sideways at him.

Bahorel sighed and put his arm around Jehan’s shoulders. “Nothing, I just…never thought I could love you more than I already do.”

Jehan barked a laugh. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” Bahorel grumbled, and he tugged Jehan closer. “Now get your ass over here and kiss me.”

Jehan happily complied and Bahorel found that he couldn’t stay disappointed that he’d been outmatched, yet again.

Besides, he’d have plenty of opportunities and obscure Celtic holidays to try to beat Jehan again.

And one of these times, he was bound to win.

#poetrysmashweek #poetrysmashweek 2022 #modern AU #ships ahoy #thank you!!

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