This is pretty much my first attempt at writing Enjolras/Grantaire in general, and let it be known now that my ability to write sex scenes leaves much to be desired. But, here is my short-ish contribution to the fandom…
It's a myth that alcohol warms you up. It actually does the opposite, but it's the temporary comfort sliding down your throat in hungry gulps that makes you feel okay, if only for a little while. It's what Grantaire relies on when he collapses into bed at 5am for the sixth night in a row, with nothing but his own bare tangle of limbs to warm the sheets.
Their flaxen haired leader will be sleeping alone as well, he knows. And although it hurts that he will likely never feel that lean, handsome body next to him when he wakes, the fact that no one else will either fills him with a sense of selfish relief. Enjolras has one passion and one passion only and it will never be Grantaire. But then, he would never want to replace the revolution in his Apollo's eyes. It brought out a light in him and made him strong – and the raven haired alcoholic with a sharp wit and penchant for bad jokes and sexual innuendo couldn't do that for him even if he tried. He'd known when he followed Enjolras to the barricades that he was the only reason he was there, that the revolution only gave one of them purpose. But he would have followed him anywhere if it meant being by his side. Of course, by night he was more than simply 'by his side' – by night nimble fingers were unbuttoning his waistcoat and pinning him gently to the wall while his lips found the flawless skin at the base of his throat, marking their territory and biting down, but only enough to draw a soft, almost needy moan from the barely parted cupids bow.
He imagined feeling his belt being pulled open, of those same lips meeting his and urging them apart as the wall became the mattress somewhere across the room. Enjolras would straddle his hips and kiss him a little more forcefully this time – he was where he felt most comfortable, in control and in power. And Grantaire would leave him in that position, for the time being; he'd be too busy enjoying the heat that no amount of wine could bring his blood, the growing ache and shortness of breath as those beautiful hands found their way out of eyeshot. But it'd be around this point that Grantaire would sit up a little, enough to flip his Apollo over and reverse their positions, the disgruntled look of surprise more arousing at that moment than having those lips around his cock. Simply having him underneath him and having him consent to Grantaire tug his clothes away from his skin and toss them to the ground, that was enough for the sceptic. Besides, he felt it was more his place to give his partner pleasure of that sort; he was more experienced with both his tongue and with sexual situations, and Enjolras was his leader, his fantasy; if each body is a temple he wanted to worship here until his jaw ached and his recipient was gripping the sheets in ecstasy, mouth open in moans now beyond sound. Once he was finished he'd slowly kiss his way across jutting hipbones, fingertips massaging the flesh found at the inner thigh, lips gradually making their way up the sternum and hovering above the pounding drum beat of his heart. His hands would have moved by now, now on either side of his waist as though gently anchoring him down. Enjolras would pull his face up, skirting over his throat as he kissed him again, mouths hot and wet with lust and small words of want would stumble out between desperate gasps for air. He'd want to tell Enjolras how much he loved him, needed him, and wanted him. But any attempt at speaking seriously would be silenced by more kisses, which he was in no position to pull away from.
It would be now that he'd allow Enjolras to take control again, pushing Grantaire onto his back, and this time he wouldn't stop him from doing whatever the hell those lips desired. His Apollo…he'd be better than Grantaire could have imagined, and soon it was him digging his nails into the sheets, the hand that had been clasped in the mess of golden curls now being gripped in another, elegant fingers easing small circles into his knuckles in a vain attempt to calm the storm raging in his blood, the electricity choking out soft groans of pleasure and turning his vision white. But he wouldn't let Enjolras finish, nor let himself finish – not yet.
Soon enough they'd be fumbling for the nondescript bottle in the bedside drawer, boyish laughs accompanying heavy breaths and impatient hands. Enjolras would do his best to distract him, lips – now pink and ever so slightly swollen – nipping at the skin on his throat and slightly harder on his earlobe, sending shivers of pleasure straight through to the bone. He isn't sure how experienced Enjolras is – he's never asked and their leader has never given any hint towards it – so, he's gentle with him, and goes slowly. He would do this anyway, but this time, with this man beneath him, he wants to be drawn out, to last and to matter and to be memorable. He wants to be able to memorise his face all over again, despite knowing everything about it already – he wants it to feel like the first time and last time he'll get to explore the contours dividing the jaw and throat, the strong, straight nose and the lightly freckled, sun kissed skin that is drawn over youthful cheekbones. He wants to commit to memory how it feels to have the boy who he's loved since becoming a student now clinging to him, digging half-moons into his shoulders and arching his back up to try and intensify the throbbing heat coursing through his veins as they move together and gradually pick up pace. He uses the half whispered, half moaned mutterings from his lover as cues to what he wants him to do and when, how hard to kiss him or when to slow down. At the best of times, Grantaire is not the best at taking instruction, but this is one of the few instances in which his ears were just as open as his heart. Enjolras could ask him anything at this moment and he would have been hard pressed to lie to him or coat the answer in jest.
His skin feels as though it's close to burning off, sweat coating both brow and back. Soon, words are beyond comprehension as a hot, intense pleasure courses through their muscles, all noises now just breathless expressions of the mounting pleasure between the two bodies. Strong hands lift submissive hips an inch or two off the mattress, fingertips press into flesh with a rapidly growing pressure, lips do their best to form pleas as breath becomes hitched in the throat and heads are thrown back and it's just as Grantaire always pictures; it's drawn out, both men infused together in the following, mind blowing moments before they finally remember to breathe again. Thoughts gradually come together in coherency as all movement gradually comes to a halt, the only sound apparent to either of them is how hard both their hearts are beating as their chests press together as they meet in another kiss; it's slower this time, deeper, loving, his tongue just as inviting as it ever has been. Sleep comes almost too soon after that, though Grantaire is the first to wake up. Enjolras is still completely out of it, chest rising and falling heavily, curls splayed in a mess of gold across the pillow. He watches him for a little while, before he decides it's time for them both to wake up. Maybe this time he'll tell him that he loves him, that he always has, and maybe Enjolras will tell him he returns his feelings.
And this is where it always ends for him. He's had this fantasy so many times – too many to count now. The positions change sometimes, the location, the mood, but even in his subconscious, Grantaire knows that the finale is nothing more than a daydream. That his leader will always favour holding a flag or a pistol over holding him. But still, it doesn't stop him from going back to his dreams, helped with another pull from the wine bottle.
Hoping never hurt anyone. Or at least, that's what he tells himself.