#reblog for the morning folks
Green Card
My submission for 2022’s @lesmissamepromptficchallenge. This year we’re keeping it simple: E/R, modern AU, fake marriage. Because why not.
“Hey, asshole,” Combeferre called over the din in the backroom of the Musain, where everyone was beginning to gather ahead of that evening’s Les Amis meeting. Jehan, Feuilly, and Bahorel all looked up, guilty looks on their faces, and Combeferre rolled his eyes. “Not you,” he huffed, brushing past them to stop in front of Grantaire. “When the hell are you going to change your address so that you stop getting all of your mail delivered to my apartment?”
Grantaire leaned back in his chair, grinning. “That depends,” he said mildly, taking a sip of whiskey. “When is my apartment going to stop being so shitty that it refuses to be serviced by even the intrepid USPS?”
Combeferre rolled his eyes and shoved a stack of mail at him. “You’re just lucky I check it,” he informed him. “Because there’s something in there that looks serious.”
Grantaire’s smile flickered. “If it’s from my bank—” he started, but Combeferre shook his head.
“It’s not.”
Grantaire rested his head against Enjolras’s shoulder. “Do you think we’re like Jack and Rose?”
Enjolras didn’t look up from his phone. “Jack and who?”
“Jack and Rose,” Grantaire repeated, and when Enjolras didn’t answer, he added helpfully, “Like from Titanic.”
Now Enjolras did look up, and even though Grantaire couldn’t see him from his angle, he could hear the scowl in his voice. “Why in the name of all that is holy—”
“It was just the anniversary of the sinking!” Grantaire said with a laugh. “And so Joly, Bossuet and I got stoned and watched the movie.”
Enjolras sighed. “I should have known.” He kissed the top of Grantaire’s head before asking, “So are you Kate Winslet or Leo in whatever scenario you’ve cooked up in your head?”
Grantaire sat up, frowning. “That’s not a fair question. I’m not as hot as Leo and your tits aren’t nearly as magnificent as Kate Winslet’s.”
“I’ll allow it.”
Grantaire cleared his throat. “Anyway, where I was really going with this is that you were born with a silver spoon—”
“Gold-plated stainless steel, if you want to be specific,” Enjolras murmured.
“—shoved all the way up your ass, and I’m just a lower class kid from the street who got in your pants by drawing you.”
Enjolras snorted. “Firstly, you grew up thoroughly middle class and your poverty is mostly of your own making.”
“Harsh, but fair.”
“Secondly,” Enjolras continued, “you didn’t get in my pants by drawing me. You got invited to join Les Amis by drawing me in a political cartoon that we used for advertising. It took several more years for you to get into my pants, and I don’t recall much drawing being involved.”
Grantaire smirked. “Well maybe not with a pencil, but if I need to remind you what I can do with my tongue—”
“Does this Titanic-related metaphor of yours have a point?” Enjolras interrupted, his voice slightly higher-pitched than usual.
Grantaire just shrugged. “Mostly that I thought it would be a good backdoor into asking you to let me draw you naked.”
“No.”
If Grantaire was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “You say that now, but you know you’re dying to say it.”
Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Say what?”
Grantaire leaned in so that his lips brushed against Enjolras’s ear as he whispered, “Draw me like one of your French girls.”
Enjolras laughed, pushing him away. “Absolutely not.”
“Shame,” Grantaire said, laughing as well. “Figured it couldn’t hurt to ask, though.”
Enjolras shook his head affectionately, and picked his phone up again. “For the record,” he said casually, “if you were Jack, and I was Rose, we’d either both find a way to be on that door, or we’d both freeze to death together.”
Grantaire blinked. “Really?”
Enjolras glanced up at him. “You jump, I jump, remember?”
A slow smile spread across Grantaire’s face. “You saying you’d die for me?”
Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I’m saying I’d rather die with you than live without you.”
But Grantaire didn’t seem to have heard him. “You’d die for me,” he said, beaming.
“Only you would find that romantic,” Enjolras murmured. “I, for one, would much rather we live for each other than die for each other.”
Grantaire rested his head against Enjolras’s shoulder, still smiling. “I already do.”
Peace
Alright, so I promised soft old men, but then this happened, and well…
E/R, canon divergent post-Barricades. Canon compliant character death, canon-typical violence and mistreatment of prisoners.
It was barely dawn when Enjolras slipped out of bed, trying not to wake the man snoring next to him. But even the simple act of trying to get out of bed without rousing his companion seemed beyond him now, as the lump wrapped in the majority of the blankets let out a disgruntled noise, a hand emerging from under the covers to reach for the emptiness where Enjolras had just lain.
“Come back,” Grantaire said grumpily, and Enjolras just laughed lightly, bending down and reaching for Grantaire’s hand and entwining their fingers together.
He ran his thumb lightly over Grantaire’s gnarled knuckles and the veins that stood out starkly against the liver-spotted back of his hand before raising Grantaire’s hand to his lips. “Go back to bed,” he ordered, his voice quiet but no less commanding than it had once been.
Grantaire’s head emerged finally from under the covers, his grizzled features thrown into shadowy relief in the dim light. “Only if you come back to bed with me,” he said, his voice pitched low to suggest Enjolras return to bed for reasons other than resuming sleep.
Did my dumb ass watch the season finale of Our Flag Means Death and immediately want soft pirates in all my fandoms?
You know I did.
…E/R pirate AU. Don’t talk to me, don’t look at me.
The young sailor in His Majesty’s Royal Navy tentatively set his empty tankard on the polished wooden bar of the tavern his crewmates had insisted they go to on their first stop off the ship. “Thank you,” he told the grizzled barkeep, not yet broken of his genteel ways.The barkeep just grunted, not looking up from where he was wiping a glass, but the sailor’s eyes caught sight of the man’s tattoo, just peeking out from his shirt sleeve, and his eyes widened. “You’re a pirate,” he blurted.Now the barkeep did look up, something almost like amusement crossing his creased face. “Well, at least I used to be,” he said before nodding at the empty tankard. “Can I get you another?”Dumbstruck, the sailor nodded, watching as the barkeep filled his tankard and accepting it without comment, slinking back to where his crewmates were waiting. “What’s with you?” one asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”“The barkeep,” the sailor said, his voice low. “He– he’s a pirate!”The other men all glanced at the bar, instantly relaxing when they saw who it was. “Oh, him,” one said with a snort. “He was, once, but he’s nothing to worry about now.”
