myladyoracle replied to your post “It’s time for some prompt drabbles!”
Maybe something like: E/R, Persephone and Hades AU, but with Enjolras as Hades? That idea has been floating around in my brain, make what you will of it! :) Thanks for being wonderful, your stories always make me smile.
(OH MY GOD ARE YOU KIDDING MEEEEE, I have been planning a Hades/Persephone AU for ages, I am so excited by this promptttttt.)
"Let the world burn," Enjolras says, and his smile is cold and terrible. "Let the crops wither and the seeds rot, what do we care. Your mother holds no dominion down here, and men may feast on asphodel when they’ve come to join us." He pulls Grantaire in with an iron grip on his wrist, bends his head and breathes against the hair at his crown. "What do we care if men die? They will all come to our realms eventually."
Grantaire lifts his head. It tips his face up, brings it very close to Enjolras’s. His breath skates across Grantaire’s skin, warm, coming a little fast. Grantaire’s mother is closing in on them, has rallied half of the rest of the pantheon by threatening the crops and the men who need them to survive. Grantaire curves the hand that Enjolras isn’t holding around the back of his neck and rises up on his toes to kiss him hard.
"I care," he says as he sinks back down onto his heels, and watches the victory on Enjolras’s face turn to fury.
"We are wed," he snarls. "You’re mine. Your mother would take you from me and never let you return. And you are deathless.” He lifts a hand and skates his thumb across Grantaire’s cheek. “Were you a mortal man, I’d content myself to wait until you’d lived your life and returned to my realms at the end of it. But gods don’t die, and your mother will never allow you to return, once she has you home.”
He doesn’t say And I’d miss you. He doesn’t have to.
"There’s another way," Grantaire says, and slips in close again. Enjolras bends as though he’s expecting another kiss, and Grantaire slips his hand into the pocket of Enjolras’s coat, and pulls out the pomegranate there.
Enjolras’s eyes burn as Grantaire splits the pomegranate open. Juice spills over his fingers and runs down his arms, stains the edge of his sleeves. Grantaire pries a handful of seeds from the fruit, then lets the two halves drop. Enjolras’s grip would be tight enough to bruise, were Grantaire not as immortal as he.
He eats the seeds, one at a time, and when he’s finished Enjolras takes both his wrists. He kisses his red-stained fingers, kisses the trails up his arms, kisses his mouth.
Grantaire wraps his arms around Enjolras’s neck and clasps him close. “Let her come,” he says. “Let her take me. Now, she cannot keep me.” He pulls back, tips Enjolras’s face up with fingers that leave stains along his jaw. He presses their brows together and holds on with all his strength. “I’ll come back. I’ll always come back.”