silly grantaire

Enjolras always makes sure he looks his best for meetings, he want a to help make Les Amis look as professional as possible.

This of course means that Grantaire had never seen him without the extra level of preparation. They only ever saw each other at or after meetings.

And this of course means that the first time Grantaire sees enjolras with stubble, bed head and rumpled teeshirts and pajama pants after planing a rally for 4 days straight he legitimately can’t can handle it. Its to much. He doesn’t always come with freshly pressed button downs??? His hair isn’t always perfect????

He ends up spending the better part of their movie night staring at enjolras and wondering how on earth he thought this man could always be put together when he was so clearly more comfortable in a t shirt than he would ever be in a suit.

And how on earth he was equally attracted to both.

On selkie linguistics

[I’m working on something longer for other characters, but here, have selie!Grantaire and dragon!Enjolras being cute and not sulky or grumpy @deboracabral ]


“Is Grantaire your real name?”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows at Enjolras. “What do you mean?”

“Is it the proper pronunciation I mean,” Enjolras says seriously. “I’ve heard you speak selkie with Éponine, is your name originally in selkie?”

“Selkie isn’t exactly a language,” Grantaire grins. “We speak seal or human. We’re all multilingual.”

“Can’t you speak human when you’re in seal form?” Enjolras asks curiously.

“We can,” Grantaire shrugs. “But it’s hard and the sounds don’t carry well under water.”

“But as a pup you can’t transform yet,” Enjolras points out. “So your name must be in selkie- I mean seal.”

Grantaire gives Enjolras a bemused expression. “Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” Enjolras says hastily. “I just, I want to make sure I am getting your name right. It’s important. Names are important.”

Grantaire smiles. Why does Enjolras always get so worked up over details? “Most of my friends call me R,” he says. “That’s a little closer to what I was called as a pup.”

“Just R?” Enjolras asks with a slight frown.

“No,” Grantaire says, grinning at his insistence. “More like R.” Seal sounds sound unnatural coming from a human mouth and Grantaire laughs at the surprise on Enjolras’ face.

“That’s your name?” he says. “I’ve heard Matéo and Judoc yelling that.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire sighs. “They like to wear it out.”

Enjolras moves his lips silently, frowning slightly. “So your name is R,” he tries.

Grantaire splutters with amusement. “Oh man,” he laughs. “Do that again!”

“What?” Enjolras protests. “That’s what you just said. Did I do it wrong?”

“You purred,” Grantaire snorts. “I didn’t know you could do that!”

“I did not,” Enjolras huffs. “You made a sound at the back of your throat, so did I!”

“Yes but I didn’t roll it!” Grantaire cries, he’s swallows his laughter, because Enjolras is starting to look rather defensive. “It was closer though,” he says encouragingly. “To my name in seal. You’ll probably get it if you keep trying.”

“You’re just saying that because you want me to do it again,” Enjolras say accusingly, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not,” Grantaire says innocently. “Honest.”

“You’re a bad liar, R,” Enjolras says smilingly.

Grantaire bites his lip to hold in his laughter. “Stars, you’re-” He swallows the word ‘cute’. He shakes his head. “Dragons purr, that is the best thing I’ve ever learned.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras chides and he gives him a friendly shove.

“Wait,” Grantaire says, eyes opening wide in delight. “Is there a dragon language? Does your name sound different in that too? Does it consists only of purring?”

“I was raised and named by humans,” Enjolras reminds him with another huff. “And no it doesn’t.”

“Prove it,” Grantaire grins. Teasing is easy, teasing is safe.

“No,” Enjolras refuses, trying not to laugh.

“Aw,” he whines. “Come on…”

No.”

“Hey Enj,” Grantaire says, wiggling his eyebrows. “Talk dragon to me.”

Enjolras chokes and spits out a cloud of sparks.

Grantaire bursts out laughing and Enjolras uses his lapse in attention to actually push him off his rock this time.

You all have these different cultures headcanons for Grantaire, like half Greek, Irish, African American etc. But I’d love to see/write something with Brazilian Grantaire.

Not just because I am Brazilian but because Brazil is a big diverse country, made up of different ethnic groups and cultures, where you can find people with all sorts of accents and appearances, where we had an avant-garde artistic movement that challenged the perspectives of what was accepted as art. And for the bohemians, we have every imaginable type of alcoholic beverage.

Canon Era Grantaire has a cynical sense of humor that reminds me a lot of a typical Brazilian person. Also, here people make up the worst possible pick-up lines, in an attempt to ask someone out in a more fun way. So all I can imagine is Grantaire using these:

“Ei, Enj, a varinha escolhe o bruxo e a minha escolheu você.” 

(“Hey, Enj, the wand chooses the wizard and mine chose you.”)

“Enjolras, eu morreria em um filme do Tarantino por você.”

(”Enjolras, I’d die in a Tarantino movie for you.“)

“Posso te fazer uma massagem nos pés?”

("Can I give you a foot massage?”)

“Não sou de esquerda nem direita, sou seu.”

(“I’m neither left nor right wing, I’m yours.”)

“Vim do futuro para dizer que você perdeu a chance de me beijar uma vez, não perca de novo.”

(“I came from the future to tell you that you missed the chance to kiss me once, do not miss it again.”)

@godlingcaptainchristina @naourie @poesie-et-liberte what you think

probably-pride-related  asked:

ITS PROMPT TIME BITCH: Grantaire goes to Enjolras' room for the first time and his walls are covered with photos of les amis, R is shook GO!

woops this is long but i love these nerds

  • SO grantaire has made so many jokes about how enjolras’ room is probably just an empty box with maybe one (1) pillow for the occasional power nap because “he doesn’t have time to relax!!!! does injustice rest!!!! does inequality stop for a few hours!!! no!!!!!” or that alternatively his room is essentially a library of french literature and books on political/social theory and the walls are covered with posters from protests. or it’s actually a secondary planning room with strategy maps and lots of flashing lights that go off when oppression is happening. grantaire thinks they’re hilarious. 
  • (like. obviously they know enjolras probably just has a normal room but it’s sooo hard to to imagine) 
  • and enjolras isn’t super private, but he likes to have his own space to retreat to when he’s tired or needs to focus, so if they have friends round they’ll usually hang out in the living room or in courfeyrac’s bedroom 
  • and then one day, and it’s a totally normal day and nothing remarkable or especially urgent is happening, Enjolras Invites Grantaire Into His Room
  • he’s so casual about it
  • even though he’s freaking out a little because he so rarely has other people in his room, even his friends, and this is grantaire 
  • but he’s been writing an article and wants to reference a book he knows grantaire is more familiar with, and he doesn’t want to discuss it in front of everyone else because they’re focussing on other shit, so he tries to be chill and asks grantaire to come take a look
  • R barely registers what’s going on until they step through the doorway and realise “oh shit this is his room be cool grantaire”
  • and enjolras starts sort of . awkwardly babbling. but r is looking at his walls because there’s barely any free space but they aren’t filled with posters like they expected? there are just hundreds of photos of les amis taken over the last few years. 
  • a lot of them are group shots from birthdays, uni parties, protests, pride, graduation, then there are a few photos other people must have sent to him, selfies of couples on holidays together or celebrating milestones, or ones taken by professional photographers when they’ve organised or attended events
  • and there are loads of silly photos too, just of them all hanging out and posing in ordinary places and pulling silly faces
  • and grantaire feels such a surge of warmth, partly from seeing so many photos of their friends, happy and together and celebrating and moving forwards, partly because it’s so shocking for enjolras’ love for them to be displayed in such a cheesy, obvious way. it’s not subtle or hidden or made to seem less important than “””the cause,””” no, if a stranger looked at enjolras’ room, all they would see is that this dork fucking ADORES his friends
  • and. what grantaire sees is that their face is in a lot of photos. so many of them. there are even a few with just them in. and it’s one thing to realise how Soft this guy is and how he wants to surround himself, and to know that they’re one of the people that make enjolras happy, that are part of his home and family and grantaire can’t believe it? that they’re more than just someone on the outskirts of the group that enjolras barely notices?
  • anyway enjolras has to try 6 times to get grantaire’s attention because they’re so emotional 

Grantaire started attending meetings right as it began to get cold, and always wears long sleeves– it took the amis til February to even see the tattoos on his arms (”i work in a tattoo shop??”)

and Grantaire seems to fit fairly squarely into ‘masculine’- he never wears makeup, or dresses, or even particularly ‘femminine’ colors

so when he shows up to the first amis picnic of the year in a crop top, abs out for all to see, there’s practically mutiny. Enjolras needs to go sit in the kiddy pool and hyperventilate for a little. Courfeyrac asks to lick them. Montparnasse insists they’re airbrushed. Joly claims he’s contracted some new virus because “im feeling really woozy?” Even Marius gets a little hot around the collar.

Meanwhile, R is just sitting there like “all you guys talk about is smashing gender norms. why do you all look so shocked? Did i do something wrong? should i go change?”

(Later Enjolras convinces him that he did everything just right. He doesn’t tell him with words but there’s a lot of tongue involved)

I couldn’t resist any longer @deboracabral

(Continuation of this and this and also inspired by this.)


“Okay,” Grantaire mutters. “So this is happening.” He shifts uncomfortably on Montparnasse’s leather couch.

“It absolutely is,” Jehan whispers, but they’re only keeping their voice down to keep Enjolras from hearing, not because they’re uncomfortable. They’ve accepted this glorious improbable reality a while ago and now they’re just enjoying it, sitting on their knees, half draped around Grantaire’s shoulders.

Enjolras is sitting on a kitchen chair with an utterly unimpressed look on his face, while Montparnasse is brushing his hair. His movements are so quick, careful and elegant that it almost looks professional. Or it would, if he wasn’t smirking like that.

“I’m not wearing my hair down,” Enjolras insists. “It’s impractical.”

“I wasn’t going to keep it loose,” Montparnasse informs him, snapping Enjolras’ own hair tie at him. “But if you’re going to keep bitching like this…”

“Just get it over with,” Enjolras scowls.

“I would if you’d sit still,” Montparnasse scowls back.

The blue and the green eyes meet for a disgruntled second and then Enjolras looks straight ahead again and Montparnasse continues brushing.

“It’s like watching a tornado circle a forest fire,” Grantaire whispers.

“Who’s the fire?” Jehan asks, their eyes never leaving the sight of Montparnasse’s slender fingers lifting Enjolras’ golden curls.

Grantaire doesn’t answer that. He seems to have trouble breathing at times.

“Enj looks like he’s trying really hard not to enjoy this,” Jehan whispers in fascination.

“Yeah…” Grantaire says, also without averting his eyes for a second. “He likes…likes having his hair stroked.”

Jehan hums in agreement. So do they. And they also happen to know Montparnasse is very good at brushing hair.

“There,” Montparnasse says, pulling Enjolras’ hair back, leaving only a couple of locks free to frame his beautiful face. “See, I hardly had to touch it. Learn to use a brush.”

“I brush my hair,” Enjolras bites at him.

“You brush it straight down, top to bottom,” Montparnasse sniffs. “You might as well leave it altogether.”

“Whatever,” Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Are you done?”

“Yes,” Montparnasse grins, turning to Jehan and Grantaire.

“Finally,” Enjolras sighs and he gets to his feet.

When he turns around Jehan and Grantaire are treated to a full view of Montparnasse’s vision. They both stop breathing for a second. Enjolras, clad in deep red, immaculate black and spotless white, his golden curls glossy around his face, but pulled back into a ponytail to leave his jawline and cheeks uncovered. Montparnasse stands beside him in blue that’s so dark it flirts with black, sleeves rolled flawlessly to his elbows. Standing there they look to be the same height, share the same figure, the same-

“I know Parnasse has been touching his hair all this time,” Grantaire mutters. “But I still feel like if they touch now the universe will implode or something.”

“Maybe it already has,” Jehan giggles, jumping off the couch and bouncing on the balls of their feet.

Montparnasse shoots them a self-satisfied grin.

“Can we go now?” Enjolras asks impatiently.

“If R plans to ever move from that spot, sure,” Montparnasse says nonchalantly.

Enjolras spins round and looks at Grantaire. “You ok?” he asks, frowning slightly.

“Fine,” Grantaire rasps and he gets to his feet too, but he looks like he’s blaming the universe for some very specific things.

“I hope I am at least allowed to wear my own coat?” Enjolras asks sarcastically, walking to the coatrack beside the door.

“I’m not stopping you,” Montparnasse says with an equally sarcastic wave of his hand.

Jehan skips to his side and laces their fingers through his. They lean their head against his shoulder and whisper: “You know… It can’t take Enj that long to feel that you put a bow in his ponytail.”

Montparnasse grins down at them. “We only have to make it to Bossuet and Joly’s. Bahorel and Courfeyrac will never let him take it out.”

Sarah and I were talking and she said we could do this. So I did it.

(Plus an extra Courf card for my fellow Spaniards.)

obstinatecurator  asked:

e/R, boners in denial

Grantaire would laugh bitterly about it afterwards, of course. He hadn’t even know what Enjolras was at the time. The sum total of what he knew about Enjolras was that he was a good fencing partner, that he was absurdly good-looking, and that he didn’t talk about his personal life. Grantaire preferred not to pry into his personal life, anyway, because Enjolras burned with the secret flame of religious fanatics and Grantaire didn’t want to destroy his good opinion of a well-matched fencing partner by asking. As long as he didn’t know the details, he could find Enjolras’ wholesome shining-eyed zealotry charming instead of offensively stupid, bask in its diffuse glow, stand up a little straighter in Enjolras’ presence…

Christ, he should’ve recognized the signs and run while he still had the chance.

They maintained their delicate no-questions-asked equilibrium until the day Grantaire asked Enjolras if he knew savate. Enjolras had been raised on savate. He was magnificent at it. By the third time he knocked Grantaire’s feet out from under him, certain physical effects of Grantaire’s admiration were making themselves known, much to his embarrassment—degenerate he may be, but even he had never bothered pushing his depravity as far as lust for his own sex. The fourth time, he managed to take Enjolras down with him, and so landed flat on his back with a panting Saint Michael on top of him.

If Grantaire was feeling awkward, surely Enjolras would work himself into a fit of puritanical outrage when he noticed the obvious. It was this thought, combined with Grantaire’s obstinate instincts towards devilment and provocation, that gave him the reckless idea to wriggle his hips and leer. That was it, really: he wanted to see Enjolras’ reaction. But Enjolras, ever the deft sparring partner, parried him with a raised eyebrow and a wry, tight-lipped smile, as though to say Yes, I noticed it too. How about that. That was when Grantaire realized that Enjolras was in a similar state of excitement.

Well, hell. There was a first time for everything. Why not sample the sin of the ancients with a boy who looked like a classical statue? Grantaire threw caution to the wind and pulled Enjolras down into a messy, hot, open-mouthed kiss.

He shouldn’t have been so surprised when Enjolras jerked away and sprang to his feet. Or so disappointed. “Oh, come on,” he snorted to cover the sting of rejection, “don’t play coy, it’s plain enough that both of us want it. Let’s try it, it’ll be a lark.”

Enjolras drew a breath and composed himself. For a man in his shirtsleeves, it was a marvellous impression of a dishevelled lover buttoning up his figurative coat and straightening his metaphorical lapels. “I’m sure it would, but it’s not a desire I choose to pursue.” He looked apologetic rather than outraged. It was a curiously perfunctory sort of apology, though: underneath it, Enjolras had suddenly turned to granite.

Grantaire sighed. He was almost impressed by the transformation. “A pederast and a Puritan. Don’t tell me, Enjolras, let me guess—you’re bound for the priesthood.”

Enjolras had already turned to gather up his equipment and leave. On his way out he shot Grantaire an enigmatic smile. “Come by the Café Musain tomorrow night,” he said. “You’ll see what kind of priesthood I’m bound for.”

grantaire-didnt-die-for-this  asked:

A) I love ur blog B) pls consider flower shop owner Jehan - Parnasse goes in to rob him but he doesn't have the heart to rob smol Jehan so he ends up lecturing Jehan on how bad his security is and beefs it up by like. Installing security camera and stuff like that. One day jehan is like "so r u gonna ask me out or what" cue montparnasse screaming internally (and then eventually asking him out. Whenever they tell the story of how they met there's two very diff versions lmao)

I’m just picturing Montparnasse straddling a window pane, deer in the headlight, completely caught redhanded by a cute redhead holding a teacup, even though it’s like two in the morning, but NOTHING fazes Jehan, ever, they’re just like:

“Can I help you?”
“I’m just looking…”

Also they’re the dilemma of FLOWERS because Montparnasse can’t exactly give Jehan flowers. Think about it. If he buys flowers from Jehan, it’d be weird, cause it wouldn’t be a surprise and he’d just… give the flowers right back. And if he goes to another flower shop, it’s helping the competition!

So Montparnasse is all grumpy like: “I’ll get them a rock. A cool rock. A cool ass rock. People like that, right?” (can you tell he had the romantic experience of a thimble). But of course, Montparnasse’s conception of ROCK is very different from you and I’s:

“I-Is that a diamond???”
“Might be.”
“Montparnasse, put it back.”
“But-”
“Put.it.back.where.it.came.from.or.so.help.me.”

adorablecrab  asked:

Talk to me about Jehan convincing Grantaire to let them paint his nails ❤

It’s early in the afternoon and Grantaire is playing his guitar while Jehan lies upside down on his sofa. Their long hair is streaming past the faded cushions and pools on the floorboards below. Their eyes are fixed intently on his right hand, plucking the strings.

Grantaire smiles. “You’re going to set me or my guitar on fire if you keep staring like that.”

“Stop accusing me of malignant witchcraft,” Jehan hums, but there are still tracking the movements of Grantaire’s fingers.

“I never accuse you of witchcraft,” Grantaire contradicts. “I accuse you of being a supernatural being that is staring at my fingers hard enough to make them spontaneously combust.”

“Your hands are pretty,” Jehan says matter-of-factly.

Grantaire smirks and says nothing. Arguments with Jehan on the subject of beauty are reserved for moments of high energy, this is a lazy moment.

“Your fingers move so fast…” Jehan muses.

Again, Grantaire doesn’t argue. This is a very gentle melody, not fast at all. But then again, Jehan has a tendency to focus on very different matters than the obvious, so perhaps they do not mean the literal speed at which his fingers pluck the notes from the strings.

“It’s pretty,” they repeat. Suddenly, in a supple, dance-like movement they swing themself into an upright position, hair sweeping through the air.  They turn to face Grantaire with glittering eyes. “Let me paint your nails!”

“What?” Grantaire laughs. He has stopped playing in surprise. “No.”

“Yes!” Jehan chimes, bouncing on the sofa on their knees. “Your fingers move so beautifully in the light, it would be even prettier if they glittered!”

“Glitter,” Grantaire says with a grimace. “You’ve been hanging out with Courf too much.”

“Come on,” Jehan begs. “I’ve got silver nail polish in my bag. Silver goes with everything.”

Another Grimace. Arguments with Jehan over use of colour aren’t something Grantaire can control, they just happen. “Silver might,” he says (it doesn’t of course). “But glitter certainly doesn’t.”

Jehan rises from the sofa and grabs Grantaire’s right hand. It looks large and rough in theirs. “Please,” they beg.

Grantaire frowns at their large hazel eyes. “What did I say about using your supernatural abilities,” he scolds. “Stop it with the eyes.”

Jehan pulls their lips into a pout and Grantaire drops his guitar and covers his eyes with both his hands.

“Arg! No! Mercy!” he croaks. “It burns!”

Jehan laughs and they rescue his guitar from falling on the ground. His friends always treat it with much more deference than he does. “Come on,” they try again, pulling on his arm. “Let me paint your nails. Just this once.”

“Fine,” Grantaire sighs.

Jehan makes a delighted sound and darts to the corner of the room where they’ve left their bag. They dig out a small bottle of glittery silver nail polish. “Hand please,” they say happily, sitting down on the floor in front of Grantaire.

Obediently he holds out his hand. “You know,” he says while Jehan gleefully starts on his pinkie. “I feel for the person that ends up marrying you.”

“What makes you think I’d get married,” Jehan grins.

“You’re the sort of person that gets married,” Grantaire says decidedly.

“Yeah I am,” Jehan says happily.

“Plus, your moms will be heartbroken if you don’t,” Grantaire reminds them. It would be too cruel for the child of a florist and a caterer to deprive them of the biggest party they’ll ever be allowed to throw.

“Also true,” they agree. They are making steady progress with his nails and take a moment to grin up at him. “I’ll just have to find someone that likes nail polish then.”

“You’ll have to find someone that doesn’t mind being emotionally manipulated into letting you do random stuff,” Grantaire snarks, but his tone of voice is far too fond for Jehan to take him seriously.

“Other hand please,” Jehan requests smugly.

Grantaire gives them his other hand and moves the fingers of his right experimentally.

“Careful, it’s not dry yet,” Jehan warns.

“I know.” He lets his nails catch the light. They glitter. That is kind of pretty.

By the time Jehan is finished with both his hand Grantaire agrees that it’s a great idea. As soon as his nails are dry he lets Jehan film a close up of his hands playing the fastest piece he knows and snapchat it to all their friends with the caption “ART”, but only on the condition that they wail mournfully in the background. The responses are thoroughly confused (except for Bahorel’s, who just sends back: nice), which prompts them to send three more, with increasingly loud wailing from Jehan.

Grantaire’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out to see a text from Bossuet.

B the Bald Eagle: What the hell is going on?

Grantaire: Hanging out with Jehan 😘

B the Bald Eagle: You two should not be left alone together

“Bossuet is criticizing our friendship,” Grantaire grins.

“How rude,” Jehan grins back. “Tell you what, you paint my nails next and we’ll send him close up pictures of it until he begs us to stop.”

Grantaire lets out a heartfelt sigh. “That really is the only reasonable thing to do at this point,” he nods.

They proceed as planned. Grantaire makes a terrible mess of Jehan’s nails and the fact that Jehan keeps shaking with laughter doesn’t help. After the fifth picture Bossuet begins copy pasting the law article for harassment in the chat and Grantaire has to put the nail polish away before either of them spills it all over the floor. His stomach aches from laughing.

“Jehan,” Grantarie says seriously, once he’s caught enough breath to speak.

“Yeah?” they snort, trying to keep their still drying nails from touching anything.

“I bless the day you and your fuzzy rainbow legwarmers walked into my dance class,” he says with solemn exaggeration. “I really, really do.”

sugalcookie  asked:

exR - nervous first kiss <3

affection is a conviction

A little after noon on the 6th of June, 1832, one of the forbidding barred police-vans which the English call black Mariahs and the French, with a twist of black humor, call salad-strainers, was stuck in the half-unpaved Rue Saint-Denis, in a thick and stinking mud made up of more blood than water. Behind the iron grill of the prisoners’ compartment were two men who should not have been alive.

The guard jumped down from the drivers’ bench to help push the wheels free of the mud. As soon as they were unwatched, Enjolras’ posture slumped, his resolute stare slipped, and he turned to Grantaire. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet here I am,” said Grantaire with brittle sarcasm. “Lingering in places where I’m not welcome is just one of my many talents.”

“You should be at liberty. You didn’t fight with us.” And, seeing Grantaire flinch from the perceived reproach, he brushed the fingers of one manacled hand against Grantaire’s fingers, the same fingers that had been clasped when they had been reprieved. “There is no blood on your hands.”

Grantaire looked away but did not refuse the touch. “I may not have fought by your side, but I was ready to die there.”

“Yes. You deserve a better fate than this.”

Grantaire turned to look at Enjolras—no, his eyes slid past Enjolras, to the slice of street they could see through their bars. A cart was passing by, an unsecured tarp thrown haphazardly over its cargo, and an arm protruded at an unnatural angle from underneath the tarp. Its coat was old and frayed at the elbow.

“What would be better than this?” said Grantaire with a laugh that had a hysterical edge to it. “If Fate is enough of a bitch to make me survive the end of the world, I can’t think of a better place to end up than by your side. Whether you want me there or not.”

“I do,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire froze.

Enjolras, with a sweet, sad smile, leaned in and kissed him on the lips.

It was a simple, chaste kiss—of benediction, Grantaire thought in shock. Unable to maintain his fragile shield of disbelief any longer, he leaned forward to meet Enjolras halfway, finally giving himself over to Enjolras’ acceptance and to something like peace. If it resembled the peace of the dead, well, then at least it came from feeling himself a part of what lay in ruins all around them.

When he opened his eyes, long after Enjolras had pulled away, he saw Enjolras with his head bowed and his eyes screwed shut. “I do,” whispered Enjolras, “God damn me, I do want you here with me, whether you deserve better or not. What does that say about me?”

The wagon lurched back into motion, throwing them against each other. Grantaire felt something quite different lurch within him. “I believe,” he said, thinking of Enjolras facing down a firing squad with a tattered red flag in his hand, of the echo of the words “Long live the Republic” against the apocalyptic silence, of Enjolras’ hand in his and the fierce quiver of suppressed passion in that chaste kiss, “I believe—that we have each survived only to succumb to a great malady.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Best accept our fate with courage and resignation.”

enjolras and grantaire being silly lil dorks whenever they find out something new or something exciting happens

enjolras finds out that grantaire can sculpt and he gets sO EXCITED and asks him all kinds of questions because he’s genuinely interested

grantaire blushing furiously when he learns that enjolras has reading glasses

enjolras kissing grantaire on the nose when he finds out that grantaire got an opportunity at a fancy gallery

grantaire staying up late into the night watching enjolras write a paper because he’s just so attentive and focused (and because he wants to make sure that enjolras gets to bed before five AM)

zimmermaenner  asked:

Hello, I wanted to send you a prompt for your fic giveaway. I'd really like an Airline AU. I don't care whether they're both pilots or flight attendants, I'd leave that up to you. (A lot of pining and a little smut would be nice, though.) That's basically it :)

e/R | Airline pilot AU, fluff, sex

“Stop stealing my food,” says Enjolras, gripping the control column with more force than is strictly necessary, especially since the weather is calm and their route is plotted into the computer; they barely have to do anything to fly the plane.

“Your risotto’s nicer,” says Grantaire, with a mouthful of it.

“Everyone’s palette is non-existent at thirty thousand feet,” says Enjolras. “You are physically, literally incapable of telling what tastes better.”

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Imagine Enjolras and Grantaire as neighbours. Enjolras is dashing home one day and when he gets there he sees a cat hiding on the porch to stay out of the rain and of course it bolts when he gets closer. And Enjolras feels so bad so he says out loud, “Oh, no, aw, kitty, it’s okay! I’m sorry!” and makes a sad face at it and the cat just stares at him, caught between running away and yuck, rain.

And Enjolras hears something and looks up to see Grantaire laughing at him from across the road and he’s all embarrassed because, you know, fit neighbour just saw him talking to a random cat, except then Grantaire says, “You’re doing it wrong. Here, kitty kitty~” and makes little miaow noises and the cat totally runs over there and shakes itself dry all over Grantaire’s jeans and lets Grantaire pet it all over

and Enjolras is totally jealous but he’s not sure which of, Grantaire or the cat.