and courfeyrac would be like hey man what happened to your hand

akigriffin  asked:

I've always had this headcanon where Maruis and Cosette are each other's first love, and it's as sickening cute as it is in the book and everyone thinks they'll be together forever. Then they both realize they're bi and not actually in love anymore (two separate discoveries). They break up, stay BFFs and fall in love with other people. (namely Courf and Ep)

Hey, this speaks to me on a veeeery personal level, friend. This post will be long and have feelings and stuff.

June.

Cosette had been thinking about things for months. Unpleasant things, things that made her mood change and her mouth curve downwards in an uncharacteristic mope.

She could deny and try to pretend for as long as she wanted. But when it really came down to the quiet moments like these, she knew in her heart that her relationship with Marius had run its course. They felt much more like friends than lovers, more like roommates than cohabiting partners.

The worst thing about it was that everybody perceived them as perfect. She’d lost count at the amount of times somebody had aww’d in their general direction, described them as goals or told them they were perfect for each other.

But they weren’t, and it hurt- but Cosette was sick of pretending. She was also sick of fantasising about dates with other, pretend people. 

It was an awful call of judgement, to make such a sudden decision to break things off over a petty squabble over dinner. But it wasn’t the little thing that broke her, it was the collection of little things that became a mountain of one big unspoken thing. She was unhappy, and they had stopped bringing out the best in each other a long time ago.

There was crying and frustrated arguments and desperate attempts for each of the other to understand what they were saying, but by 9:00PM that night, they were done.

Marius & Cosette the perfect couple were no more.

Marius and Cosette the individuals were just beginning. 

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anonymous asked:

ExR "We are gods. Grantaire was only mortal man but he gave his life for us. For us dream. We are gods but I don't know what to do for him"

Hey anon, I really, really hope you don’t mind me playing a bit with your sentence, I’m sorry! I ask for one and then I transform it, I hope you like this anyway! 

“We are gods!” Enjolras finally says, almost shouts, to his stone-faced friends. “Grantaire was only a mortal man, but he gave his life for us! For our dream! We are gods but I don’t know - I don’t know what to do for him now,” he finishes more quietly.

The silence is his only answer. He tries to muster some more anger in himself, but there’s no point in being angry at his friends, because he knows they’re mourning Grantaire as much as he is - maybe even more, he thinks guiltily as he catches sight of Joly’s pale face and the way Bossuet is firmly looking at the ground, holding Joly’s hand tightly.  

For the first time in his life, a strange nagging feeling of emptiness is creeping into Enjolras’ chest, and he’s at lost at what to do about it. He’s on the verge of sitting next to Combeferre, seeking contact, when he hears a delicate cough. 

He sees his friends tense and frown, and he looks behind him. His mother is standing there, tall and as gorgeous as always; she’s chosen to take the form that Enjolras remembers the most: golden skin and golden curls, full pinks lips and a heart-shaped face with sharp-cheekbones and big blue eyes. She’s chosen to look like him. She hasn’t done that in more than five years. 

“Nobody appreciates hubris, my darling,” is her first words now. “None of you are gods, you are merely their sons.”

“Is this a lesson?” Enjolras asks, anger coming back in a moment. “Was this supposed to be a slap on the wrist, is that why you came to him with this ridiculous bargain?” 

Aphrodite tilts her head on the side, thoughtful.

“He came to me,” she says after a second. “He was scared of Zeus’ wrath, of what would happen to you now that your plans had been revealed. He knew I could appease Zeus with the right incentive.”

“You could have asked for anything in return,” Enjolras says furiously. “Anything but his death!”

“I did,” Aphrodite says. “I asked him to give up his love for you.”

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Through the Window

Ish. 

Modern AU, E/R. 

Five times Grantaire “accidentally” broke into Enjolras’s apartment through his window, and one time it was completely on purpose.

The first time it happened, Enjolras walked directly past the dark-haired man asleep on his couch without even batting an eye. To be fair, it was obscenely early, because Combeferre had set the meeting time and Combeferre was a morning person, the dreaded concept, and Enjolras had not even had coffee yet, so how was he supposed to notice the fact that there was a large, fairly attractive stranger passed out on his furniture?

By his second cup of coffee, he had not only noticed, but had devised and promptly dismissed a dozen different plans for how to wake said stranger up and possibly politely request he vacate the premises because, well, Enjolras didn’t think he’d given permission to a random stranger to sleep on his couch. His parents’ couch, maybe, because Enjolras would never be above offering those less fortunate than him a chance to stay at the Enjolras family mansion, but not on his own couch, not in his sanctum sanctorum.

He also was debating over asking the strange man to put his shirt back on, because while it just seemed polite to ask the half-naked man to not be so in his living room when he didn’t even know his name, the shirtless part wasn’t entirely unappealing. Hey, Enjolras had eyes, and even the distraction of a perfect stranger in his living room couldn’t detract from the sight of those muscles and tattoos.

Finally, after debating over texting Combeferre or Courfeyrac or literally any of his friends to ask for advice, he decided on a direct approach, clearing his throat loudly and saying, “Um, excuse me?”

The man opened one blue eye and groaned. “Oh fuck,” he said, his voice heavy with sleep. “I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

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Of Roommates and Hallways

Enjolras/Grantaire, minor Courfeyrac/Combeferre

prompt - “we both got kicked out of our rooms because our roommates are having sex so now we’re standing in the hallway avoiding each other” au

Rated: T
≈1350 words
Read on AO3

“This is ridiculous,” Enjolras tells the closed door of his apartment.

The door doesn’t look very sympatheticbut at least it doesn’t argue.

Enjolras loves his best friends. He is totally happy that they eventually got their shit together after he listened to their mutual pining for years but why couldn’t they have really loud sex somewhere, anywhere else? No, instead Enjolras got kicked out of his own apartment on a Friday evening even though he could have really used the time for finishing his essay, thank you very much.

“Just ridiculous,” he says again.

The door doesn’t seem to share his indignation.

“I don’t think it’s going to answer.”

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anonymous asked:

you said you were looking for fic prompts so im just gonna leave this here: Wing!fic where lots of people in the world have pretty feathery angel/bird type wings but they face discrimination and R has always hidden his wings because they're different (reptile?injured? he just hates them?).One day one of the amis drags him to a protest about wing rights and R is R and says cynical things. Cue chaos and Enjolras being oblivious. Wow that came out really long. Sorry. *runs away*

I kind of tweaked it, so it’s actually an X-Men-type mutant AU, but there are still wings!

Thanks for the prompt!

“Why are you doing this to me, again?” Grantaire mutters as he is herded along the street by Joly and Bossuet.

“Because it’ll be good for you,” Joly says firmly.

“How so?”

“It’s a chance to be among friends.”

“You two are my only friends. Like, literally.”

“Okay, so not friends, but…similar people. People who face the same difficulties we do.”

“Freaks like us,” Grantaire concludes dully. It earns him one of Joly’s bony elbows to his ribs.

“Don’t say that,” he scolds. “Especially not where we’re going.”

[Read more]

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This Mess

Blue lights and broken glass.

Trapped, trapped, trapped.

Enjolras stared up at the ceiling of the kitchen, the blue lights flashing outside the Enjolras estate reflecting brightly off the white walls and countertops. Enjolras thought it looked very cinematic, very dreamlike, very unreal. He could hear the muffled voice of his father arguing with his public relations manager in the next room. They were arguing about the best way to “clean this mess up.”

“This mess” being Enjolras, who was alone in the kitchen, lying on the floor, with broken glass in his arm and chest.

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How beautiful life can be

This is a little story I wrote for @bibliophile-extraordinaire, a literal ray of sunshine on my cloudy days.

Enjolras picks up the wrong suitcase at the airport and discovers a sketchbook inside the one he took instead. Quickly, he falls in love with the art, and maybe a little bit with the artist too…


The flat’s door has not yet closed behind Combeferre when Enjolras is already collapsing on his bed. He just stays there, jacket and shoes still on, and decides that he won’t leave his bed for at least a week. Their time in London had been amazing, they had met a bunch of amazing people and the speech Enjolras gave last night certainly was a success but now, after some partying with newly made friends, hours and hours of waiting at the airport and a flight disturbed by some turbulences, Enjolras is just glad to be home. Finally.

 

There’s a knock at his doorframe, followed by a chuckle.

“Enjolras?”

“Hmmmm”, he grunts into his pillow.

Courfeyrac laughs again.

“Have you seen Ferre’s camera? He can’t find it right now and had the idea that it could have ended in one of our suitcases.”

With a sigh, Enjolras gets up and walks over to the corner of his bed where he has dropped his suitcase. He opens it, wondering if there’ll actually be a camera inside – and stops. Because there isn’t Combeferre’s camera inside, but that’s not the main problem.

 

There is not a single familiar item in the suitcase and suddenly, Enjolras is wide awake. He picks a dark green sweater out of the mess inside the case and looks at it in disbelief. That sure as hell isn’t his sweater. Which means that this isn’t his suitcase. Which means that his own is… he hasn’t got a clue where it is. He’s only aware of his nearly finished essay for university that he’ll have to turn in in three days, secured on an USB drive after he had borrowed the laptop of one of his newly made English friends to write it after late night discussions or between morning coffees. And now it’s gone. Together with a bunch of clothes and some of his favorite books.

Courfeyrac is looking at the green sweater Enjolras is still holding in his hands, a questioning look in his eyes. As soon as Enjolras has explained the situation to him, he suggests looking for an address or any other contact details to be able to find the suitcase’s owner; hoping that this person took Enjolras’ suitcase so they can make an exchange.

Together, they go through everything inside the suitcase; flannel shirts in different shades of black and grey, mismatched socks, a knitted purple beanie. And then, wrapped into a grey scarf, there is a notebook. Enjolras looks at it for a moment, admired the patterns of the leather the cover is made of, before he opens it.

 

“What was that?”, Courfeyrac asks.

“Sorry?”, Enjolras murmurs, not looking up from the book he’s holding carefully in his hands.

“The sound you just made.”

Now, Enjolras looks up, but instead of answering, he just holds the book up where he opened it and Courfeyrac’s eyes go wide.

“Wow.”

Yeah, that describes it pretty well, Enjolras thinks. What they’re looking at is a drawing of Paris, soft morning light embracing the city, the Eiffel tower shining like it was made of pure gold. It makes Enjolras think of cute little cafes, walks along the Seine, bird songs in spring. The drawing is beautiful, showing a calm side of Paris the city often hides between traffic noises and crowds of people, and Enjolras can’t help falling in love with his home a little bit more.

 

Carefully, he turns the page around, and then another, and the next – he sees a close up of one of Notre Dame’s magnificent windows, the Louvre’s pyramid, done with only black crayons, a streetlamp that seems vaguely familiar, a view that could be seen from the top of the Centre Pompidou, the Opera Garnier illuminated by moonlight… It’s a mosaic of Paris, interrupted by sketches of people, glimpses like one might get them while passing someone on the street. Sometimes, there’s a pair of eyes or a smile that’s especially detailed, and Enjolras realizes that this is why the artist chose to paint these people, because of these small features that made them special. These people seemed to belong to the collage of Paris in this sketchbook as well as the buildings, filling the city with life and laughter and music; a few more puzzle pieces in what makes this the most beautiful place in the world.

Enjolras is so caught up in his thoughts of Paris that when he turns another page and what he sees is clearly not the French capital, he just stares at it for a moment. Wonders. It’s not only that he doesn’t know this place, these houses, that they somehow look not Paris-like, no. The feeling of the drawing is different as well. There are more edges, different shades of dark blue instead of the light colors that had been dominant in most of the Paris drawings, a sky that seems like it would rain at any minute. Two pages later and Enjolras is sure what he’s looking at – the first one had been a busy street, filled with people whose umbrellas were the only spots of color in the otherwise grey surroundings, and the second drawing is showing a building he had visited just two days ago. The Tower Bridge. There’s London in all its varieties; famous buildings mixed with a strangely shaped tree, swans on a lake, people with extraordinary clothes, wide eyes and hungry smiles.

Enjolras turns the next page, and suddenly – nothing. There’s a blank whiteness staring back at him, the same following on the sketchbook’s remaining pages, and Enjolras can’t deny how much he would have loved to go on and on, to see these magnificent cities through a poet’s eyes just for a little longer.

 

“Well, that someone surely got a talent”, Courfeyrac murmurs and Enjolras looks at him, surprised for a second. He had been so lost in memories, feelings and dreams of the cities that he had really forgotten his friend’s present.

“Yes, they do”, Enjolras answers, the wonder the drawings caused audible in his voice.

He starts to look through the sketchbook again and caches himself at getting more and more curious about who might have transferred all these beautiful moments and glimpses onto the paper with their skilled hands. Is there really no name here..? He stops at the drawing of a spiral staircase, the surrounding walls covered in paintings of all colors imaginable. Enjolras recognizes this, it’s a metro station called Abbesses, and it’s also one of the very few things that appears on more than one of the sketches. But at the moment, this fact isn’t what got Enjolras’ attention, no. There is something at the bottom, something written in black… a signature maybe? Enjolras looks closer. It isn’t a full name, but rather a letter… a P? No, that’s not it. It’s a tiny black R and Enjolras wonders what it means. If it could be that his mysterious artist calls them self R, if there is another special meaning behind it.

 

“I’ll go there”, Enjolras suddenly explains.

“Where?”, Courfeyrac asks.

Enjolras’ finger pointing at the picture of the staircase is all the answer he gets and with a raised eyebrow, Courfeyrac wishes him farewell. They had known each other long enough that he knows better than to question his friend’s spontaneous decisions anymore.

 

When Enjolras arrives at the metro station Abbesses, he stops and looks around. There is the staircase he had seen in the mysterious R’s drawings, framed by detailed houses with small painted windows, words in different colors, fonts and languages, bright red flowers.

The sketchbook is open in his hands and he’s searching for the very spot where the artist might have stood when suddenly, something solid collides with his shoulder and Enjolras is losing the ground beyond his feet. He’s falling, falling, he can already see himself colliding with the metro station’s floor… and then, there are solid arms around him, caching him before he can fall down.

Surprised, Enjolras looks up and meets the eyes of a dark haired stranger, looking at him apologetically.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t saw you st… wait. That- That’s my sketchbook.”

The stranger’s eyes turn even wider and Enjolras feels himself getting lost in their deep deep green… Until suddenly, he realizes the meaning of the words the other man had just said.

“You painted these?”

The dark haired man nods, not meeting Enjolras’ eyes anymore.

“They are amazing!”, Enjolras exclaims.

A little smile finds its way onto the stranger’s lips and Enjolras feels himself smiling back, and they’re looking into each other’s eyes…. And then, suddenly, he becomes aware of the situation they’re in, that the stranger’s arms are still wrapped around him, holding him, and there’s something about this smile…

The dark haired man clears his throat, carefully letting go of Enjolras but still standing quite close to him.

“So, ehm, how do you happen to get my… Wait. Oh, of course, you took my suitcase, right?”

“Yeah, I did. I don’t think you might have taken mine..?”

“Depends. Have you got a preference for red hoodies and naïve authors?”

“Naïve? How do you..?”, Enjolras starts in a heated voice and only stops when the stranger puts a hand to his shoulder.

“Hey, Blondie, would you maybe like to continue that discussion, like, over a cup of coffee or something?”

 

Enjolras just looks at him, wondering if he had heard right, if the amazing artist with these deep, intelligent eyes and the breathtaking smile should have asked him out of all people to go out for a cup of coffee. While he is still caught up in this thoughts, the hand’s solid pressure at his shoulder vanishes and he looks up to find the stranger’s gaze on the floor, mumbling so he’s hard to understand.

“I’m sorry, that was stupid, I shouldn’t… I’ll just…”

“What do you mean?”

“It was stupid of me to ask you out, like I was anywhere close to your lea-“

“But I’d love to.”

“What?”

“I’d love to go out for a coffee with you.”

“Oh. Wow”, the stranger says and suddenly, there it is again, that smile that Enjolras is already helplessly charmed by.

“So, shall we?”, Enjolras asks, offering his hand.

After a second of hesitation, the dark haired man takes it, and together, they start walking towards the stairs. Towards the staircase’s end, towards the light.

“My name’s Enjolras, by the way.”

“Grantaire.”

There was no way Enjolras could have said no to Prouvaire’s request that day, the man had run into the Musain with the proclamation that “today was the most beautiful day in the entire universe” and that they were all fools to be inside on such a marvelous spring afternoon.  So Les Amis had relocated to the nearest park. 

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thisisthierrysblog-deactivated2  asked:

TELL ME ABOUT YOUR HEADCANONS FOR HOW THE AMIS WOULD DEAL WITH A SEA-CREATURE-INDUCED APOCALYPSE I'm totally not using you for ideas or anything for that one fic I have to do nope

Enjolras and Courfeyrac and Feuilly: They’re men with a plan, and unfortunately that plan is about dealing with the corrupt government forces and possibly re-storming the halls of government. Barricades, basically, is the plan. But it’s a REALLY SOLID plan, they know what they’re doing, they build a barricade like nobody’s business, and since in the face of SEA MONSTERPOCALYPSE the people of Paris really DO see the point of coming together against the tentacular shared enemy, THIS time there is ALL THE FURNITURE and ALL HANDS ON THE EQUIVALENT OF THE DECK, and that sucker’s thirty feet high and could keep out the actual *sea* .  Their group of barricade-islanders holds out as well as anyone possibly can.

Combeferre is also at the barricade, pretty much by virtue of mostly hanging out with Enjolras and Courfeyrac, and that’s good, because it gives him something to focus on beside  SEA MONSTERS WHAT WHY HOW EXISTENTIAL REWRITE THINK OF THE IMPLICATIONS; something more Explosions-y. It’s not easy, creating something explosions-y when you didn’t plan for it that morning, but HE IS THE MAN TO DO IT, and he’s rather less conflicted about deploying that skill in the current circumstances (“Enjolras, you are looking at that pulsating horror, you are not seeing it. It might have a hivemind, a brood, an unearthly consort preparing to unleash doom on us all! *lights fuse*   LET’S NOT SEE IT HAPPEN.”)

…“What Horizon” is a much shorter speech though. “CITIZENS, DO YOU PICTURE SOMETHING WITH A BEAK AND A  SORT OF GLOWING ANTENNA AND LIKE WALKING FINS?  BECAUSE IT’S HEADED THIS WAY.  SOMEDAY WE WILL CONQUER THE HYDRA, AND IT’S GOING TO HAVE TO BE PRETTY QUICK, SOMEONE HAND ME ANOTHER RIFLE, THANKS FEUILLY YOU’RE AWESOME.”

Bahorel also has a plan, are you kidding, he’s had plans for this since he was EIGHT, and it does not involve any sort of barricade or hiding or “optimal survival strategy”. It DOES involve a cannon, a set of Carnival masks, homemade medieval siege equipement, and an accordion.  Also, there is a fire-moat. It’s not around HIS house. (Gavroche shows up because IS THAT A FIRE MOAT?!? IT’S A FIRE MOAT, YOU HAVE A TREBUCHET, THIS IS THE AWESOMEST PART OF PARIS NOW.)

Jehan has ALSO planned for this since he was a tiny creature, but with less emphasis on “hitting it with cart-sized projectiles” and more on “embracing the unknowable” and “communing with the infinite” and  “walking right up to a kraken and trying to talk to it, dammit, Jehan, you’re RIGHT IN THE LINE OF FIRE and now we have to wait”. How survivable this is depends on many factors, I suppose.

Joly and Bossuet and Grantaire….do NOT have a plan, but they are okay with that!  They’re pretty much just walking their way around Paris while buildings topple, making frustratingly layered jokes, collecting samples and observations for Joly to study and theorize over later, and performing casual acts of heroism (“Do we have to gallop into EVERY collapsing building to pull people out?” “You would prefer to polka?” (cue footnotes about the galop infernal and the art of immigrant communities in Paris, etc). They’re having a grand time. They are AMAZINGLY drunk.This has nothing to do with the sea monsters, it’s just how things are.

(Valjean and Marius don’t even go here. They really, really don’t, because Marius was on his way to die dramatically because he thought Cosette dumped him, and Valjean ran out to talk some sense into the boy, and they both get swallowed whole and spend the whole time fighting their way out of the intestines of the Leviathan, having a lot of very useful conversations on the way out, and coming to a mutual understanding of each other and how they will treat Cosette that does not involve LYING TO HER ABOUT EVERYTHING CONSTANTLY, so, hey.)