lol i am so sick of people sleeping on Jesy. still. like she is so unbelievably talented. her voice is so unique and beautiful and she gives every performance her all. this girl was BORN to perform and be a star! she literally has so much stage presence it’s honestly awe inspiring watching her perform. and to see how far she’s come?? like it literally makes me so emotional to see how far she’s grown and how confident in herself she is now. yet she is still disrespected and i’m beyond over it.
Also 8: "Let's just pretend. Just for tonight." Enjoltaire ily ❤
Okay so this is part of this Fantasy From Enemies to Lovers fic idea in which Grantaire is the crown prince of a kingdom stolen to Enjolras’ royal family. They now working together to get Enjolras on the throne, but confusing feelings are getting in the way
Also this got way out of hand and ended up being 900 words long
The festivities were going full swing, but Grantaire’s heart was not in it. He felt out of place, like an intruder, watching the revellers making merry, dancing and singing, like one would look at a picture, standing outside of the frame. He could not join them, not when his father was the one bleeding them dry with taxes. Or bleeding them dry in a much more literal sense.
How could he celebrate the harvest, when he was standing on a blood-soaked soil? Fruits didn’t taste the same, now that he knew. Grantaire could feel the tinge of iron everytime he ate one, and had to swallow the guilt with every bite.
Leaning against a fence, Grantaire watched the flames of the bonfire tickling the stars. They were supposed to ward off wicked spirits that would ruin the next crops, Bossuet had told Grantaire when he had asked. They didn’t build bonfires for the harvest, back at the palace. You can’t ward off the wicked spirits when they’re already inside, Grantaire had thought bitterly.
The sounds of music and laughter were deafening. Longing for some peace of mind, Grantaire retreated towards the woods, hoping that the trees would muffle the noise. Enjolras was there, right on the edge of the forest, sitting on a stump. He stood up awkwardly as Grantaire approached, and Grantaire held his steps.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral.
“You didn’t. I just needed to be somewhere… calmer. The smoke went to my head.”
Grantaire nodded in acknowledgement. If Enjolras had noticed Grantaire had spent the whole day avoiding him, he didn’t show any sign of it. Nothing in his voice suggested he remembered the kiss they had exchanged either. Grantaire didn’t know if he should have felt relieved or sad about it.
“I don’t want to scare you off, but that will be one of your duties when you’re king,” Grantaire teased, a crooked smile on his lips. “Presiding balls. Standing in a noisy throne room. Pretending you’re having a good time.”
“It take it that wasn’t your favourite part of being crown prince.”
“No, screw that. That’s why I’m leaving you the throne, I couldn’t stand it more than a year!”
Enjolras laughed softly at that and leant against a trunk. It was rare, seeing him laugh. Grantaire supposed being the only living heir of a royal line did that to a person. Perhaps, if Enjolras’ father was still on the throne, he and Grantaire could have grown together. Enjolras, the golden crown prince, and Grantaire, a child of the aristocracy. He wondered how different that Enjolras would have been from the one he was looking at now.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t stay here too long,” Grantaire advised. “These are your people. You should celebrate the harvest with them. Make a speech or something. People love it when their monarch has a flair for the dramatic.”
“I’m good here for now,” Enjolras answered, closing his eyes.
Knowing he couldn’t be seen, Grantaire took a couple more steps towards Enjolras, looking at his features. If it was rare to see Enjolras laugh, it was even rarer to see him so exposed, defenseless.
“That’s funny,” Grantaire said.
“That you’re letting me this close. If Courfeyrac knew you were alone with the rotten usurper, he’d probably shit himself.”
“You’re not going to kill me,” Enjolras asserted. “You would have done it fifty times over by now.”
“Does that mean you trust me?”
“Something like that.”
Grantaire was a couple of feet away now. Enjolras didn’t say anything, watching him approach with his arms crossed against his chest. If he wanted Grantaire to step back, he would have said so by now. There was a fleeting moment of silent between them.
“What are you thinking about?” Enjolras finally asked.
Grantaire’s chest tightened.
“About how different it could have been.”
Enjolras didn’t say anything, but Grantaire could feel the air getting thicker. Yet, he did not move. His eyes kept looking into Grantaire’s. Tentatively, as though he was afraid of being burnt, the other put a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. The muscles under Grantaire’s fingers were tense, but there was no attempt to push him away. Slowly, Grantaire followed the curve of Enjolras’ elbow to find his hand.
“How different?” Enjolras asked, pushing him to elaborate.
“The court, the palace, the kingdom… everything. You. Me. I would have been part of the court. Perhaps we could have been friends.”
The word sounded off in his mouth. Were they even friends now? Enjolras was so close that Grantaire could feel his breath against his lips. As close as they had been last night, when Enjolras had kissed him. Grantaire’s gaze went from his eyes to his lips. For a second, Enjolras dipped closer, his breath getting warmer against Grantaire.
Enjolras pushed him away.
“It doesn’t change anything,” he said, his voice as cold as his cheeks were hot.
“Let’s just pretend. Just for tonight!” Grantaire tried desperately.
“I can’t!” Enjolras snapped back, before storming off towards the bonfires, his hair set ablaze by the light of the flames.
some sweet love making between the missus and harry after a really fun day with the kids and everyone just loves each other so much
And the babies are all asleep for a big late afternoon nap after a trip to the zoo or aquarium or children’s museum, so they sneak away for a little ‘nap’ of their own.
It would so sweet and silly. They’re having sex and they’re going to get each other off, but it’s not really focused on the fucking, you know? Just being with each other and making each other feel good (and not just in a sexual way). Nipping at Harry’s ears when she pulls his shirt over his head, Harry blowing raspberries on her neck. “Should I tell a joke?” Reveling in the way her belly jumps under him as she laughs.
The missus stopping to get something out of his teeth. “Ooh, baby, you got something in your teeth.” She prods her fingertips at his eyebrows, to the sparse hairs that grow in between. “Can I just get the little ones riiight here?”
“Do I taste gross? Feel like I have garlic breath.”
“No. I’m surviving,” she’d tease, nudging his cheek with her nose and giggling in the space between them when he feigns looking all offended.
Harry pausing to admire the soft, tiny bush she’s growing out, nuzzling his nose into it, and telling her how cute and fluffy it is.
Running his hands down her calves and deciding: “I needa paint your toes for you.”
Her getting a little tingly rush of affection, and reaching for him, so he crawls back up from between her legs and she cradles his face in her hands to bring it close enough so she can kiss him.
“I love you too.” Little butterfly kisses to the tops of her cheeks, a tiny nose nuzzle. “Will you pluck this for me?” He prods at the mole on his chin, to the taunt, dark hair that sprouts free from the middle.
She scrubs her fingers along the prickly stubble on his jaw. “Yeah, I’ll get it for you.”
Harry fumbling with the stuck clasp of her bra, eyebrows furrowed, lip between his teeth and mumbling to himself about how you need a uni degree to take a bra off these days.
“Please hold,” he jokes, practically chest to chest with her as he reaches around to try and get the hooks free. “This is so sexy, innit?”
And the missus is giggling. “Got it? Need some help back there?” He finally pulls it free with a pleased cheer, tossing it to the floor.
“Are you okay? Comfy?”
And she just nods, running her hands through his hair when he dips down to kiss and love on her soft tummy. Where all of their babies have grown.
Teasing him about leaving his socks on when she notices he never pulled them off, and promising she thinks it’s cute.
“M’feet get so cold anyway!” Murmuring: “Feel good?” When he earns a whimpered moan with just his fingers stroking that prized little spot inside her, kissing her inner thigh as he works his fingers. “Gonna kiss ya right here in a minute, promise.”
Shifting around when he pushes forward from between her legs, after making her cum twice, face puckering up. “Sorry, leg cramp.”
“Are you okay?” she worries, a little breathless.
“Yeah. M’fine.” Though it comes out a little strained, and he kisses her bare shoulder.
She kisses his full, lower lip as his mouth falls open with pleasure from the flicks of her thumb over the spot under the head that always makes him fall apart, loving how he squeezes his eyes shut and moans into her shoulder.
“Good?” she whispers, to which she earns an: ‘Mm…uh huh.’
And then it’s slow and sleepy thrusts and tasting each other’s moans, warm skin mingling together, and making each other giggle in between. Her fingertips trailing down his bum, coaxing up a surprised little moan from tickling the sensitive skin, and him nuzzling her breasts with his cheek.
“Feels so good, baby. You feel so good.”
Clutching each other as their orgasms wash over them. Laying on each other, breathless and blissful, and completely sated, sponging small kisses to each other’s faces, tracing fingertips on skin, exchanging a smile when they push the hair out of each other’s faces.
Happy to be cuddled together a little while more, falling asleep wrapped up in each other, actually getting a tiny nap in before the kids start stirring.
I will never be so cold-hearted towards these books as to not be on the floor crying about the idea of Obi-Wan wanting to be a Jedi and be in love and go on missions with his loved one and be The Team with them.