- reached for the last snack item at the same time au
- accidentally ‘borrowed’ their towel at their gym au
- saw their number graffitied on a toilet stall au
- "which asshole hasn’t returned the dvd i want yet" au
- parents signed them up for the same shitty art/science program au
- met on omegle au
- thirst follow au
- mail keeps coming to the wrong address au
- "you know you’re singing to your headphones out loud, right" au
- beat the crap out of each other in online multiplayer au
- worked really well together in online co-op au
- "i think your dog likes my dog" au
- kissed them as a distraction while stealing their wallet au
can i just please have a best friend plot
like fuckin no i don’t want one of them to secretly be in love with each other since like the age of seven
i want two people who met in like their freshman year, instantly hit off and became brilliant buds. they tell each other everything and greet each other with ‘hey bitch’ or s/t like that and the other will not hesitate to beat the other up if he fucks up
this can be same gendered or m/f idc pls gimme
RAMI KADI Un Souffle d’Orient Collection
I’ll have you know, I’m hilarious.
But okay listen: 7 years ago today, MILLIONS. LITERALLY MILLIONS. of Potterheads from all over the world were sitting with their brand-new copies of the Deathly Hallows and taking their final journey with Harry. It’s amazing when you think of the sheer scope of it-that many people in a sense united by this one book, riding the same emotional roller coaster simultaneously.
enjolras constantly being tired and grantaire being a big bf beanbag constantly in optimum enjolras comfort position
grantaire and enjolras being annoying at parties and falling asleep in a chair at like half nine
Courf comes through his and Ferre’s kitchen, holding a luridly coloured drink in each hand. Everyone else is on the roof terrace - hey, they’d got lucky with the estate agent - but Enjolras and Grantaire are missing.
"If they’re making out in the bathroom again," he mutters, dodging through the dining room (currently doing double duty as a study for the pair of them). He walks through the living room without a passing glance, making for the bathroom.
"Oi. Lovebirds. If you’re in there, this is your final warning before I bust the door down."
He tries wheedling, pressing his cheek right up against the crack between door and frame. “Come on guys, it’s a party. You know, with other people?”
Silence again. “Right, you leave me no choice. Cover anything I’ve not seen - wait, that’s nothing - I’m coming in!”
Courf placed the two drinks on the floor behind him, then slammed his shoulder into the door.
Which gave way straight away, being unlocked, and sent Courf sprawling to the floor with a loud thud.
"Ow," he moaned from a heap on the tiled floor, getting a lovely view of the sink pedestal. Say, that was where he’d dropped that five quid note the other morning, he vaguely thought before an amused chuckle sounded at the door.
He looked up. Combeferre, smiling amusedly, was standing in the door way, holding one of his drinks up to his face.
"What in god’s name is this?" he asked, sniffing the drink, before wincing.
"Blue curacao, peach schnapps, lemon sambuca and…" he had to think for a second, pulling himself into a sitting position. "Oh, yeah, that ouzo Jehan presented us with after he came back from Delphi."
The taller man lowered the glass, looking rather repelled. “Forgive me if I don’t partake in any of that.” He inhaled slightly. “Smells like it could kill a horse.” He looked down. “What are you doing on the floor, by the way? I know I’ve been asking you to clean the bath for ages, but is now really the best time?”
"Subtle." Courf pulled himself up to his feet, Combeferre leaning forward to lend an elbow. "No, I.. burst in here thinking that Enjo and R were snogging in here again."
"Which they clearly are not." Combeferre had the faintest smile on his face. He nodded his head to the right.
Recognition dawned. “Oh, you have got to be kidding.” Combeferre kept smiling. “Not again,” Courf groaned, making his way out into the living room.
Sure enough, Enjolras and Grantaire were snuggled up in Combeferre’s favourite armchair, fast asleep. It was hard to tell whose limbs were whose, especially due to the pair’s habit of stealing each other’s clothes - one paint-stained hand creeping out of a breton jumper with a worried cuff, a green hoodie clashing horribly with Enjolras’ scarlet jeans.
Courf looked for a moment longer at the tangle of bodies in his living room, then looked back at Combeferre. “It’s nine o’clock,” he said, plaintively.
Combeferre patted his shoulder. “You know how hard Enjolras is working at the moment. He’s dead on his feet. They’ll wake up in an hour or two.”
"Only when Grantaire starts to lose the ability to breathe from the stranglehold Enjo’s got him in." He darted a look at his best friend’s arms, looped tightly around his boyfriend’s waist.
The taller man laughed, pushing his spectacles up his nose. “Come on, they’ll be back in a while.”
Courf acquiesced, taking one of the glasses out of Ferre’s hand. “Alright, dear.”
As they made their way back to the party, Grantaire snuffled in his sleep, and Enjolras mumbled something in return, tightening his arms around his artist. Combeferre smiled, casting a sideways look at Courf, who rested his cheek quickly on his boyfriend’s shoulder, before taking a sip of his new concoction.
"Christ," he coughed, "that shit’s strong."
"That reminds me," Combeferre said, flicking his eyes down at the glass in Courf’s hand. "Why on earth have we got a pair of glasses shaped like Timon and Pumba?"
"Bahorel," said Courf, shaking his head.
i just watched like five episodes of the west wing and we started season seven and i’m just
we only have twenty-one episodes left
i’m so sad
cute & frustrated