#bbc!enjolras x f!reader

[stardancerluv]

A Time to Love and to Fight

Part Twenty Eight

Summary: Enjolras’s parents receive information…and Enjolras and his wife settling in.

Warning/Notes: Shows the pov of Enjolras’s mother. Shows an interaction between his parents. Wanted to show a new development that will be happen for Enjolras.

Warning: Dated views on the United States..dated views between a married man and woman. Dated views of how a man of “higher status” should be. Mentions unaliving and events that lead up to it…and additionally threats of it possibly happening again.

❤️ s, reblogs and feedback is always welcome.

Loop and tug then pull. Loop and tug the pull. Loop and tug then pull.

“Will you please slow down?”

You made a face pausing, to look over at your husband. “Since when do you care?”

A scuffing sound came from him. “You know I do.” He sighed.

“What do you suppose I do?”

“Stroll in our garden. Write a letter to Julien.” He shrugged. “We don’t need you getting bad humors in your blood.” He absently chewed on his bottom lip.

“I could catch my death in the garden, it is quite frigid. And as you know, I don’t know where Olivier settled him and his wife.”

“Oh? I would have thought the boat would have reached its destination by now.” He remarked dryly.

A sharp knock sliced through the air. You met your husband’s eyes. His eyebrows rose, his mustache twitched.

“Yes?”

One of the elder servants, Xavier walked in.

“What is the reason for the disruption?” Your husband was not pleased.

Xavier, gave a small bow. “There is a solider here that wishes to speak with you.” He looked towards you.

You brought a hand over your heart. “Me?”

“Yes.”

You placed your crocheting beside you. Your husband, came to stand behind you. He met your eyes. You nodded.

“Allow him in.”

He looked like quite the brute before he even spoke. A chill fell over you. He was as big as an armoire. You bit the inside of your cheek, as he drew closer.

“You are the parents of the man known as Enjolras. Leader of a band of rebels.”

His tone was brisk, it was a statement. There was no question in his tone.

You shared a look with your husband. He let out a chuckle. It was the most cynical sound to ever reach your ears. It gave you a chill.

“Our son, is a student at the university.”

You swallowed.

“Him and his friends have been drinking their way through my money.” He paused. “A leader of rebels? No that is not my son.”

The man gaze fell onto you. Your heart stilled. “Perhaps, you naive of the facts mousier but your wife knows the truth.”

Your husband rose his brows. You swallowed.

“I, I…” You trembled. “All I know is he said he had to go to the colonies, that university bored him and he needed adventure.”

As you watched the man’s hand tighten and loosen in a fist, you felt is almost difficult to breath.

“He killed a young man, a Lieutenant in cold bold in a skirmish and you know nothing.” He rose his voice.

Your husband came out from behind you. “Excuse my tone, but how dare you enter my home and accuse my son of murder.”

“Your son came down from his perch, withdrew his pistol and shot him in cold blood.”

Your husband, stepped forward. “I barely could get his nose away from books. I had to practically bribe him to take up fencing. What is your basis for this accusation?”

“I watched him from where we stood our ground. It was my son’s life he took.”

You felt your heart wrench. You knew what he had told you. It had been the solider who had shot first; if that girl had not stepped forward it would have been in the cold, unforgiving ground. The shroud of mourning would be with you in every breath you took. You could understand the man’s anguish. But you could not help this man. You placed a hand over your heart.

“Mousier, I am terribly sorry all I know is I gave him some money for passage to begin his adventures over the great oceans.” You swallowed.

The man’s eyes narrow. You could practically feel his gaze.

“I find it unlikely but I do not wish to call a woman a lier in her home. His friend spoke of how he was as lethal and as deadly as an avenging angel.” His gave with relief went to your husband before it returned once again to you. “But know this, I will find him and I will kill him.”

Sharply he turned then and stormed out. Xavier was close on his heels who managed to close the door on the way out.

You barely took a barely took a breath before crumbling back into sofa. Your husband turned to you just as the two of you heard the front doors slam shut.

“Tell me what you know.” His words cut deeper then the solider’s.

The door opened. Xavier bowed.

“I am terribly sorry. I promise no further interruptions.”

“Good now leave us.” Your husband made. A dismissive gesture with his hand.

Xavier nodded and once again closed the door.

“Talk.”

“Can I have a brandy?” You needed to calm your heart.

“After.”

You felt ill but you nodded.

“After the conflict after the funeral of General Lamarque Julien and his men set up barricades. They knew the royal army would strike back and hard. Mind you it was during that conflict, that solider like that brute almost took his hand with his sword.”

“Is that so?”

You nodded.

“Continue.”

“The army attacked and they held them off. That was night he wed.”

You husband nodded. “I knew someone would pull on his heart, country and revolution could not steal his romantic heart completely.”

Your heart thudded a little harder. It was the kindest he ever spoke of him.

“He’s alot like you in that respect.”

“Oh dear husband,” You began.

“It’s an observation.”

He made a face, you couldn’t read under his mustache.

“Apparently, it wasn’t enough to keep him from actually fighting.” He absently moved his hand. “Continue.”

“Late, close to the midnight hour there was yet another attack. They held that off too. However, that is when that lieutenant mist have snuck behind their barricade. He was addressing his comrades when from below he took a shot at him. A young girl, someone who helped from time to time stepped just at the right moment. She took the bullet.”

You swallowed, you trembled. You could still see how he looked as he had spoke to you.

“And yes, he stepped down then and shot the man.”

“So it wasn’t exactly and execution?”

“Far from it.”

With a clink of glasses, your husband poured you both a brandy.

“So he fled with his wife?”

You nodded, the warmth of the brandy filling you.

“And you like her?”

“Yes.”

“Our son is now a man.”

He drank the entirety of what he had poured himself.

You didn’t know what to say.

“Is he going to the colonies?”

“No, just London.”

“Not many are lost traveling there. Good. I wouldn’t want to lose him to that ocean or even country.”

You blinked. Any response, any possible word became ensnared with another. You had no idea how to grasp onto any of it.

“Once it is safe for letters, tell me. I wish to write him.”

“Yes.”

“I am going to take some air.”

All you could do was take finish the last of your brandy.

********

“But sir, where is your servant shouldn’t he be here?” Asked the shopkeeper.

“One is by the carriage storing way the carpets.” He shrugged. “These are gifts to my wife, our house. I wanted to handle these other items myself.”

“You’re a romantic sir. Don’t let that side carry you away.”

“Thank you for the advice.”

Easily he picked up the trunk that held the lovely treasures, he wished to breathe life into the home the two of you now shared. There some clanging and shifting. It made him smile, he knew all of this would please you.

******

The wheels had groaned as they rolled over uneven streets that led to his destination.

Happily, he climbed out of the carriage and nodded to Beatrice the house keeper as she opened the door for him.

“Keep the door open. I have brought home one of first of many carpets.” He smiled.”tell me, where is my wife ?”

“In the library, sir.”

He nodded. Pausing, he shifting the trunk of treasures to his hip.

“Want me to take it sir?”

He shook his head as he tugged then loosened his scarlet scarf. “I got it. Has any letters arrived?”

She pressed her lips together and shook her head no. She glanced down.

“There will be.” He said brightly and shifting again he continued on his path to you. He hoped you were not poorly with your energy.

******

The chair creaked under you as you adjusted the curtains. Frederick had done good, but you knew that you could do better.

“Ange! Qu'est-ce que tu fais là haut?”

You clung a little harder to the curtains at the suddenness of Enjolras’s voice. You had been lost in your thoughts. You were grateful to no have fallen off the chair.

“Just fixing the curtains.”

Giving the curtains a final shake, you grabbed your skirt and jumped the short distance down. Easily you made your way over to him.

Seeing the trunk in his hands and your eyes grew.“More treasures?”

He nodded and the smile that filled his face filled you with warmth.

“Yes. I am certain you will love what is in here.”

*******

You giggled. “Angela, would be furious.”

He slid you a look. “Good thing she is at the market.” A half smile curled his lips.

You were grateful that the connections that Enjolras’s solicitor gave you servants actually were pretty decent people. Greta would have approved of each of them.

You honestly not used to having such activity around the household. For so long it had been only you and Greta. It all reminded you of your childhood. When father was alive, there had been a handful more then just Greta. Enolras was kind to them. He didn’t particularly like the idea of having them. Though, he was also very aware of why they were needed.

If you were honest with yourself, as of late you had grown to be quite breathless when on your feet for too long, so were grateful for their help. During this last month, he had urged you to rest more. Since the two of you had not found a doctor to look at. you reasoned that the long journey had mostly like taken its toll on you.

The treasures; books and a few vases and even a statue or two covered the large table. Happily you looped your arm with his. It steadied the unease you felt from shaking out and straightening the curtains. You hoped he didn’t notice.

“What shall we grab first?”

******

Later, with the moon high in the sky. He brushed some hair from your face to place a kiss on your temple. It had been a few days but he was eager for a tankard and a card game or two. Perhaps, been some pleasantries exchanged someone who know of a doctor.

*****

He pushed the heavy wooden door was was greeted by the smell of the ale, straw that littered the floor and a rip of laughter from a lady who sat with a few men in the corner. He was certain she owned the place. But didn’t ask too many questions.

“Arthur! Maurice!”

He smiled and gave a wave. Soon he sat with the two men he had taken a liking too. They would have fit in nicely with Courfeyrac and Grantaire. A slice went through his heart at their memory.

Cards fluttered across the worn table, some ale even sloshed a few tomes free of the tankard before reaching his lips.

“James!” Arthur stood and called out. Not much longer, he couldn’t tell though he dod notice that the a few candles were lower then when he had first arrived.

He turned to look at the man who approached. He looked him up and down. His clothes appeared clean, not too worn. His hair despite being lank was inky black and he appeared to look out from under his green eyes were sharp as he looked out from under his bushy eyebrows. Though as he neared a warm smile cracked his angled face.

Arthur returned the smile with a broader one. “James, welcome back from the country.” He clapped the man on the back.

“Good to be back. And happy to report no serious ailments, only the boredom of wives kept in the country and the gentlemen eager for conflict with news of clashes in France.”

He saw Arthur nod.

He stiffened at hearing his home country. A blur of the conflicts he went through raced in his mind like a stallion that longed to be free. It made a shadow of bittersweetness fall over him.

“James,” Arthur turned to him. “Allow me to introduce you to a few friend. Julien, new to the area with his sweet wife.”

James nodded at him, he lifted his tankard. Soon the man took a chair near him.

“You were in the country?” He asked him while glancing away from his cards.

“I am the local physician of sorts.”

His mood lifted hearing the man.

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[bizaar]

enjolras x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ only - piv smut, oral (f receiving) handjob (m receiving) - general talks and mentions of sex/smut, lovemaking, breeding kink if you squint - mentions of concubines and usage of the word "whore" (reader is a sex worker so proceed with caution), general tooth rotting fluffiness, forbidden love is my bread and butter

word count: 8k (I'm so sorry I'm incapable of writing anything short)

a.n.: This is my first smut so go easy on me :D also, apologies if I didn't do Enjolras justice, I watched clips from BBC Les Mis on Youtube for days and got sort of generally stuck on how to write him talking about anything besides the revolution when ALL he talks about is the revolution - PLEASE BEAR IN MIND THAT READER IS A SEX WORKER so don't come for me tumblr prudes I don't want to hear it.

A chorus of high voices calling your name summons you to the top of the stairs, and it’s there you find him, idling in the foyer below — Enjolras.

Just to see him kicks up a storm of giddiness swirling in the pit of your stomach and you have to resist the urge to say something smart about finding himself in a brothel so late in the evening, just to defuse the tension.

He wouldn’t like that.

Be sweet, Mon Cher, he’d implored you recently in the midst of an intimate moment— stroking your face and breathing hard against your mouth, your legs wrapped around his canting hips, holding him to press tight against your core as he slipped in and out of you at an agonizing pace.

That had been six nights ago — Six nights too many, you think as you pinch your thighs together and feel the first stirrings of arousal in your belly.

Now, the other girls stand around him in a throng of giggling fillies, touching and flirting — the teasing only amplifies when they see you standing there, not so subtly gripping the banister.

“Your man is here —” One of them sings, her voice dripping with a condescending edge as she braces her hands on the flare of her hips and leans into him, very pointedly presenting her ample bosom, spilling out from the top of her stays.

To his credit, Enjolras pays her no mind, he is far too busy gazing up at you with all the reverence of a man set to worship.

Still, the gesture brings a hot flash of jealousy to your cheeks and you scowl at her as you begin your quick descent of the rickety steps. They creak under your weight, despite the way your stockinged feet make no noise against the brushed wood — your worn dressing gown trails behind you like the train of a fine dress.

Enjolras watches you approach, a gentle smile spread over his handsome features that you pretend not to see as you hit the last step and reach for his hand.

He gives it to you.

“Haven’t you all got better things to do than stand around gawking?” You hiss at the silly creatures, pulling to lead Enjolras back up the flight.

“Better things, for sure,” someone muses, “But no better men.”

They kick up with a chorus of raucous laughter and you tighten your grip on his thick fingers like you’re half afraid they’re going to steal him from your grasp if you aren’t quick to get him up the stairs.

The girls all call their teasing, singsong goodbyes to Enjolras as you mount the steps and disappear into the belly of the brothel.

You quietly thank God that the Madam is not home. She would not stand for such idle foolishness, nor would she stand to see you whisking Enjolras off to your room. The girls are all enamored with his soft eyes, kind speech, and good looks — the Madam only cares whether or not he can pay for your company on his meager salary. More often than not you do not even bother charging him, as his company is payment enough — much to the Madam’s chagrin.

How she does like to tell you that time given away is time wasted, and the Madam does not stand for that kind of frivolity.

Your room is at the far end of a long hall of open doors. To peek through you might have seen the other courtesans busy with their own individual fancies between suitors — playing at cards, drinking wine, gossiping — that is if they had not all gathered down in the foyer to fawn over the handsome guest in their midst.

It is strangely quiet for this time of night, though you expect that is likely to change soon enough.

The hard thumps of Enjolras’s footsteps as he follows wordlessly behind you beat in tandem with your heart, and you silently wish to be anywhere but here, where this didn’t have to feel so mercantile, where intimacy could live and breathe without the ever-present guillotine of payment hanging over your heads. You wish it were enough to be lovers and not just a favored whore.

You know he would reject that thinking, despite how true it is.

How many times has he told you he loves you? How many times have you rejected that affection on principle?

You cannot afford to love him while you are so deeply indebted to the Madam… and yet…

Through the door you go, startling the two young girls who have taken refuge in your room. They sit crowded at the vanity, their faces done up in powder and rouge, one wrapped in your fine silk shawl as if they’d been playing at dress up.

Their wide eyes flit back and forth between you and the man you have in tow with a patent unease, like they have been caught red-handed at something.

“Marie, Clotilde, get out.” You say sharply, addressing the girls by name.

They remain staring at you, at Enjolras. Everyone knows about him, the revolutionary — your little pet — you imagine they have heard as much talk of him as anyone else in this house.

They are younger than the others and thankfully have not been set to working just yet. As such they are comparatively harmless, but you are no less inclined to let them share in what little time you have with Enjolras.

He is yours and you intend to have him before the Madam returns.

You clap your hands sharply, snapping the girls to attention and pointing to the door.

“Alons-y! Go!”

They scramble to collect their things and get to their feet before scurrying past you, heads dipped sheepishly as they go through the door.

“Is that him?” You hear Clotilde whisper before shutting the door.

Somewhere behind you, Enjolras sighs.

“They are much too young for this life.” He says, his voice a low timbre that sends shivers through your body.

“No younger than I was when it found me.” You mumble bitterly. “Paris is a cruel city for girls with no means…”

The stillness that falls over the room is but a calm before the storm — you survey the mess, discarded stays, skirts, boots, and petticoats, your delicate shawl lies pooled at the foot of the bed where it was hastily discarded.

You heave a sigh and cross the room to retrieve your most precious trinket from the floor.

“How was your meeting?” You ask idly, desperate to cut the tension over the bleakness of life in the underbelly of Paris.

Enjolras likes conversation, particularly with you — he likes to pretend this is anything but the transactional exchange it really is, so as not to cheapen his feelings for you — your feelings for him.

“It went well, I think.” He says, “There were more people there tonight than I’ve seen before—"

You hum thoughtfully as you uncork a bottle of wine and pour yourself a glass.

You watch, half mesmerized by the swirling dark liquid, and feel the heat of his gaze on your back as he continues.

“People are coming from all over Paris. It feels as though they’re finally ready to stand up for something.”

“For the revolution you mean?” You ask, sipping the wine.

Your tone is decidedly more condescending than you’d intended and Enjolras doesn’t answer. You half expect him to admonish you for mocking his cause, but he remains quiet.

Behind you, you hear the telltale click of the door lock sliding into place and feel butterflies stir in the pit of your stomach — the Madam does not abide a locked door in her house, but you cannot presently bring yourself to care.

His silence would be enough to unnerve you were you not so entirely certain of his gentle nature, his kindness, his affection for you.

When you turn to look at him, you find that he has crossed the room to stand behind you, his body blocking your view. His hands come up to trail feather-light touches up the length of your arms. You feel his breath fanning the back of your neck.

“I missed you tonight.” He murmurs.

You breathe an easy laughter through your nose and shiver under his touch. He takes the glass from your hand and drains it in one gulp — it clinks softly as he sets it down on the dressing table before you.

His arms come up to snake around you and pull you close, the rumble of his contented sigh vibrating through your body.

“How can you miss me when you have your good lady Madam Révolution to keep you warm?” You tease, leaning back into his touch.

“I always miss you when you’re not there.” He says ever so softly, dipping to press a gentle kiss to the junction between your neck and shoulder. “You could come with me, you know. To the meetings?”

“I’ve been to your meetings.” You remind him, turning your head to rest against his shoulder, tipping back into the crook of his neck as his free hand moves to splay out across your belly.

Thick fingers press you back to lay flush against his body and you smirk as you feel the faintest impression of his cock stirring there.

You rock your hips back tentatively against him.

“They weren’t for me.”

“The meetings…” he insists, brushing his plush lips across the highest point of your cheekbone, your temple, your hairline, “…Are for anyone who yearns for liberation.”

You mean to roll your eyes, but arousal has beat you to the motion as the hand on your stomach slips down to cup you between your legs. Thick, calloused fingers draw a slow line over the clothed seam of your pussy and your eyes roll back in their sockets at the sensation it elicits, lips parting ever so slightly on a breathy moan.

You certainly do yearn, though not presently for liberation.

You had meant what you said, though — you aren't expressly unwelcome at the meetings, but nothing deters the good citizens of Paris from turning their noses up at the presence of a common whore in their midst.

You’d met Enjolras at one of his citizen’s meetings, and spent the duration of it being sneered at by the upstanding proletariat in attendance. You hardly cared. You’d been there to work, not to be inspired, but then you’d caught Enjolras’s gaze and found yourself struck, and like a bolt of lightning, you forgot all other men but the brooding revolutionary with the dark eyes.

He was similarly affected by you.

You don’t believe in such fanciful things as love at first sight, and yet you’d spent the evening circling one another, stealing glances and shy smiles before you’d shocked yourself by sitting and listening to him give speeches about liberty and equality among the people.

You would not consider yourself a patriot by any stretch of the word, and as such you didn’t retain a thing Enjolras said that night, only the way he’d said it, and how he'd spent half as much time undressing you with his eyes as he did rabble-rousing.

You thought he was marvelous, and that was dangerous for someone like you.

In some small hope of retaining what shred of good sense you had left, you quietly took your leave before the cheering and songs were finished, as if somehow you knew you were going to fall in love with him if you gave him the chance.

He, in turn, had stolen away from the budding revolution to follow you nearly halfway across Paris, just to ask your name.

It was a gesture romantic enough to make your knees tremble.

For all his serious talk of liberation and freedoms, you were surprised at his secret romantic inclinations — though, of course, you suppose all revolutionaries are romantics at heart.

It takes a great passion to care enough about the plight of the lesser man to want to change things, after all.

Enjolras had asked to walk along the Seine with you and watch the sunrise, and you’d told him he couldn’t afford to buy that much of your time, hoping that knowledge of your profession might deter his pursuit of your affections.

It did not and, against your better judgment, you’d let him kiss you as the sun rose over the river.

He has held your heart ever since and you have not known a day of peace for it.

Nevermind your profession, there is no room for love in the midst of a revolution — to make one life more precious than the lives of the masses is antithetical to everything Enjolras proselytizes … and yet…

His eyes are dark, satin pools, pupils blown wide with desire, staring through you to the depths of your soul. You could come apart under those eyes, even without the help of his fingers, probing experimentally at the growing slick between your legs.

Enjolras kisses you then, a soft, languid slanting of lips that breathes warmth into you all the way to your core. He holds you tight as you turn over in his hands, twisting until you are facing him, only parting so that he can lift the thin cotton shift you wear over your head and cast it aside, leaving you bare but for your stockings.

He takes your face in his hands and catches your mouth hungrily, coaxing you to open up for him just a little more with a heady swipe of his tongue. You make quick work of unwinding his dark crimson cravat to reveal the hard lines of his neck and fumble with the buttons of his waistcoat, desperate to undress him despite how he has not yet even shed his coat.

You breathe hard into the heat of his mouth as big hands roam the length of your body like Enjolras cannot decide where it is he would like most to touch you — the supple swell of your breasts or the soft dip of your waist.

He settles finally on the gentle curve of your rear, cupping you there and lifting you easily so you might wrap your legs around him. It is only as you settle in his strong arms that you finally feel the full press of his hard length digging into your hip, making his trousers all too tight.

You shudder against him and breathe his name, gripping needily at his neck and shoulders as his mouth moves down to leave searing crescent moon shapes over your jaw and the tender columns of your throat. It’s been no less than a week since you’d last been under his bruising touch, but it may as well have been a lifetime for how you yearn for him.

“Enjolras…” you whine.

“Hmm?”

“Make love to me,”

You feel the curve of his broad smile against your flesh and the rumble of gentle laughter in his chest, and you are nearly undone by the warmth swelling beneath your ribs as you are filled to the brim with emotion.

“As you wish, Mon Cher.”

It is only a few minutes more of fumbling, reverent touches and searing kisses before you’ve discarded the last of his clothing and he has you laid out on the bed.

He relieves you of your stockings one at a time, slowly peeling the thin material down your legs, kissing the soft mailable flesh of your thighs as he comes down to settle between your spread legs. You gasp when you feel the scrape of teeth on your inner thigh and push up on your elbows to watch as he settles there.

Searing breath fans your slick folds, a startling contrast to the chill that sends a shiver through your body as he pushes your legs up and out to spread you that much wider, exposing your dewy core to the air. You fist the bedsheets, watching him lick his lips, eyes bright in anticipation of the meal he is ready to make out of you.

The first tentative swipe of his tongue has you jumping, jerking at the wet heat slipping through your folds and drawing teasing circles around your opening. The little kitten licks that follow have you sinking back into the pillows, soft lilting sighs slipping from your mouth to fill the room and match the pleased, hungry sounds he is making from between your legs, muffled by the mouthful he has of your pussy.

His mouth is a sinful thing, all tongue and lips and the slightest hint of teeth, worshiping at the altar of your body with broad flat strokes up and down the length of your slit and teasing flicks to your tender nub. In no time at all you’re writhing against him, rocking your hips in search of more friction, tiny lilting sounds spilling from your mouth in an unending tide of praise and encouragement.

You tremble as he pulls back from your folds with a vulgar wet smack only to press the tip of his tongue to that little bundle of nerves throbbing with inattention. You moan, a high sound of needy ecstasy as he pulls it into his mouth and, ever so tenderly, suckles at it, sending a sharp spike of pleasure lancing you through your midsection.

You card your fingers through his hair, careful not to tug too hard as you guide him to where you need him most, which, at present, is on his back fucking up into you.

You are all too aware of how empty you are, clenching down pitifully on nothing at all.

What you don’t realize, however, is how you’ve been begging for him until he’s crawled up to meet you. He licks a fat, wet stripe up the length of your torso, over the swell of your breast and the pebbled bud of your nipple as he makes his way up. You jump under the sharp sensation as he nips at you, taking your breast between his teeth before soothing the offended flesh with a balm of his tongue.

A trail of searing wet kisses leads him further to your lips, the heat of his ministrations punctuated by the murmured assurances he showers you with. You can taste the sharp tang of your slick spread over his mouth and tongue as you suck his lower lip in past your own and let yourself be drawn up into Enjolras’s lap as he sits up and rocks back into the sea of pillows at the head of your bed.

You settle there, already flushed and a little lightheaded and having to brace yourself against his chest to stay upright as he lays back.

Once you have your bearings, you push up easily on your knees and take his rigid cock in hand, throbbing beneath your touch as you pump the length of him for good measure — not that you need to, he’s as hard as you imagine he can be, with the way his purpling tip responds to the way you swipe the pad of your thumb over his leaking slit.

When you turn your gaze back to watch him, you see his eyes are half hooded and his mouth has fallen open in a wanton panting, he hisses with pleasure when you squeeze and twist the head of him on the uptake, and suddenly his hand flies out to catch you by the wrist and still your motions.

He forces out a breathless laugh.

“Mon Cher — you’ll wring me out before we’ve even begun.” He warns you, and you click your tongue at such a thought.

“What’s got you so sensitive?” You tease, drawing featherlight touches up and down the thick vein throbbing on the underside of his shaft.

He grits his teeth and breathes out hard through his nose like he’s working hard at putting all his energy into keeping himself from spending over your fist. Enjolras shakes his head and forces himself to open his eyes, chest heaving.

“I told you — I missed you.”

Which is to say he’s more than likely been half-hard all evening in anticipation of this moment.

You find that to be immeasurably pleasing, picturing him sitting stoically amongst his compatriots, discussing revolution and democracy and the makings of history, all the while burning with unbridled lust and shifting awkwardly to conceal its effect on him.

You smirk as you lean forward to press a chase peck to the end of his nose.

“Darling, you don’t have to miss me when I’m right here.”

And then you press him to your core and sink down onto his length in one, swift motion that draws a shared groan of relief from the both of you. He’s sheathed in you to the hilt in a matter of moments, the heat of your walls clenching down and drawing him in like it’s desperate for every inch of him, hungry for more even as you’re filled to brimming with him.

It is all-encompassing, the way he clouds your senses, and anything witty you might have said dies on your tongue as you swallow hard, your nails scraping down the length of his heaving abdomen. The heady burn of how he stretches you is almost too much, and for a moment it is all you can do but sit there, speared on his cock and trembling as it presses bruisingly against your furthest wall.

Enjolras grips your thighs like your flesh is all he has to keep him grounded, throwing his head back into the pillows as he does his best to quell the gentle, unconscious rocking of his hips until you’re ready. For half a moment, you wonder if he is about to cum and if, as he’d prophesied, all of this will end before it’s even started.

You wait for his grip to ease up as he comes back to himself, and you breathe out a shaky sigh, nodding reassuringly when you feel him gently tap his fingers on your leg, silently asking after you.

Always the gentleman, checking on you in spite of his state, you could kiss him, but you’d have to rock forward to do so and you aren’t quite ready to move just yet.

You know he must be desperate to take you by your hips and rut up into you until he finds his release, but you also know he would rather cut off his own hand than do anything without your permission, so he waits, and you watch.

Oh how he suffers, your poor idealist.

You think perhaps you could tease him a little, draw this out for as long as possible, but you’d only be torturing yourself — there is no denying that you are as eager for him as he is for you, and your quick and fevered fingers drawing circles over your bud with thoughts of him are nothing compared to the real thing.

Finally, you push up on your knees again, keening at the thick drag of him against your tender walls, lifting almost to the point of dislodging him before dropping back down. Again. And again, until you’ve found a steady rhythm that has your skin crawling with ecstasy.

His isn’t the largest cock you’ve ever had, but you find that it fits you best, like it was tailor-made for you. It is certainly your favorite, though you are, perhaps, at least a tad biased when it comes to him.

Enjolras’s big hands grip and pull at you as you ride him, like he is caught again in the dilemma of where to touch you, how best to hold you. The filthy wet sounds of lovemaking fill the air, commingling with your soft moaning and the creak of the bed frame beneath you. It is the soundscape of any number of brothels across Paris, but between the two of you, it is like music.

And then, without warning, he braces himself against the mattress and cants his hips up to meet yours as you come down again. You yelp, from alarm as much as sensation, and the momentum of his sudden thrusting nearly dislodges you to send you toppling over.

You brace yourself on one arm to keep from falling, though by then Enjolras has sat up to catch you, holding you in his arms while he fucks up into you, just like you’d wanted. You curl your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and swivel your hips in perfect time to each of his thrusts, and you move together like a well-oiled machine.

This is how you like it best, straddling him with his arms wrapped around you, forehead pressed against his, inhaling his exhales — pure bliss — you bite your lower lip and smirk as you try to suppress a burst of joyful, breathy laughter.

“What’s funny?” He asks, his voice thick and strained and tinged with the slightest trace of humor.

You shake your head because it feels silly to tell him it’s nothing, only that this is your favorite thing in the world — bouncing on his cock — and you just wish you could do this forever.

Funny to hear someone who fucks for a living say something like that.

You just smile at him.

“I missed you,” you hum, in a gentle mockery of how he had said it before.

He still his motions ever so slightly as his face splits into a big, broad smile of his own, dimples pulling tight to indent his cheeks as he surges forward to kiss you again.

Your heart thumps solidly in your chest and you think perhaps that he is what all those poets must have been talking about when they wrote their sonnets and songs of love.

You think Enjolras must be the envy of the Gods of old, and somewhere, wherever they are, they stand weeping over his beauty because they will never have him.

Say what you will about his devotion to Madame Révolution, right here and now Enjolras’s heart belongs entirely to you, and you’re half inclined to think he might make a romantic out of you for it.

It takes no effort at all for him to roll you, and suddenly you’re pressed into the mattress below him. There is only the briefest moment’s pause in rhythm as the momentum of changing positions causes his length to slip from your heat. You whimper at the loss of him, and he shushes you, petting your face to soothe you because, of course, he is coming right back.

You gaze up at him, beautifully flushed and disheveled, openly panting but still smiling as he kneels over you, supported on one strong arm and readjusting to compensate for the new angle. You splay your legs open wide to allow for him to slot in as close as possible against your core, letting him spread you a little further past the point of comfort with a gentle hand on your knee before hitching your legs up and around his hips.

You only briefly feel the broad flare of him at your entrance as he lines himself up before seating himself in you once again. He pushes all the way to the root in one quick snap of his hips that has you throwing your head back and arching into his touch with a loud, wanton moan.

He is suddenly so much deeper than he was before, thrusting into you, and you feel ready to come apart at the seams as he sets an agonizingly slow pace— pulling almost all the way out before snapping back again, each hungry thrust of his hips slamming home up against that most tender spot at your furthest wall to make you see stars and colors.

It’s punishment for how you teased him before, you know it must be, but this is how he likes it, painfully slow and hard enough to knock the headboard against the wall.

He likes to take his time while he dismantles you, but you are impatient.

You’re fisting your hands in the sheets and lifting your hips up off of the bed, trying to meet his every thrust despite how he pushes you back down with a strong hand and holds you there firmly. It is only enough to keep you teetering on the torturous edge, never enough to send you over, never too little to draw you back.

You can feel the litany of desperate noises tumbling from your lips more than you can hear them over the vulgar squelching sounds that fill the air with every pass of his cock against your sticky walls, the harsh slap of skin on skin, his soft grunting and moaning filling the room as he moves. The slick mess that drips down your thighs makes for a smooth glide in and out of you — you could almost blush to imagine how it must be pooling in your bedsheets and making a sopping wet mess of him as well as yourself.

It’s enough to make your toes curl and your walls flutter and clench over the length of him, drawing a low rattling moan from deep within his chest.

You’re only vaguely aware of the things Enjolras says to you, the little rhetorical questions and naughty phrases to which you can only nod along in affirmation, too drunk on the delicious sensation of being so perfectly stretched by him to form coherent thoughts or responses.

Yes, it feels good — so, so good. Yes, you like it when he fucks you like this —faster, more. Yes, you’re his good girl, taking him so well — don’t stop — yes, yes yes yes…!

The vice he has on your hips is a bruising thing, and where before there was the painfully slow in and out and in and out, he snaps his hip again, and suddenly he’s hilted in you to the base, pelvis pressed flushed to yours as he begins a slow, rutting grind, just the perfect amount of friction against your swollen, needy bud to have you writhing under his weight.

Your eyes roll back and slide shut as you press your head into the pillows, exposing the tender columns of your throat and mewling at the sensation of being so full.

“Oh— f-f-uh—!” You bite the curse off with a shrill gasp, one hand flying down to grip his wrist as his big palm splays over the lowest point of your belly, applying pressure there like he is in danger of bursting through your abdomen and means to contain himself. “E-Enjolras—please!”

You can feel the vibration of his gentle laughter buzzing into you through his cock and it’s nearly enough to make you seize.

“Yes, my darling?” He teases, “What is it?”

You’re not sure you could have answered him at that moment if your life depended on it, you aren’t even sure what you’re asking of him. You’ve suddenly got your lower lip pulled so tightly between your teeth that you half expect to taste blood as the heat in your abdomen quickly begins to wind itself into a tight, quivering coil.

The unconscious canting of your hips to rock against his ministrations is a desperate thing as you try to chase more friction and bring yourself to climax.

And then you feel his movements growing lax, slower and slower until his hips still entirely. It draws a pitiful whine from deep within you as the orgasm you’d been balancing on the edge of turns gossamer and slips through your fingers.

A calloused hand comes up to settle over your jaw then, and rubs tenderly up over your cheek. You feel his thumb brush away a dewiness you hadn’t been aware of forming on your lashes and suddenly the plush spread of his lips is at your throat.

“Open your eyes, mon amour —” he whispers, kissing the tender spot just beneath your ear, “Look at me.”

It takes some effort, but eventually, you obey, chest heaving and eyes blurry as you gaze up at him, suddenly leaning over you on his elbows. You reach up to brush stray curls from where they stick to his sweat-slicked forehead with a shaking hand and feel your chest swelling with emotion again.

He is so handsome and so kind, and he could so easily be yours — he would whisk you away from all this if only you would let him.

How you wish you would let him.

There are tears in your eyes then, spilling over your lashes and down your cheeks to pool at your jawline.

Enjorlas’s brows come together in tight-knit concern and the thumping of his heart against your own is almost enough to make you forget he’s still got his cock in you.

“What’s the matter?” He asks, so gently you could fall apart beneath him as he brushes the pad of his thumb over the spread of your lower lip, like a key unlocking the chest where you keep your most precious secrets.

The words tumble foolishly from your lips before you can stop them.

“I love you,” you gasp.

The confession is shocking, like the clanging of a bell. Ever so briefly, you watch something closer to hurt than you like to see on him flash across his dark eyes, shifted nearly black with wanting. The pained look is gone in an instant, replaced instead by a crumpled smile, like he can hardly believe he’s heard you correctly.

He’s professed his love to you a dozen times over, in and out of the heady spell of lovemaking, and you’ve dismissed the notion a dozen times again.

You’re both all too painfully aware of the hideous cliche you’ve found yourselves in, a man falling in love with a whore, begging her for her fidelity where she cannot offer it, making a thousand promises of the honest life they could live together if only she’d give herself over to him.

You’ve had countless other men make you similar, needy promises in the heat of the moment, caught in the vice of your pussy and teetering on climax, but those intentions always fade to dust the moment they spill over and come back to their senses.

Enjolras has never once gone back on his word, whether he is in his right mind or drunk on your flesh — you’re half inclined to believe he could deliver on those promises, make an honest woman of you, take you away to live with him in some little cottage where he would marry you and you’d raise a brood of wild children together.

You’re almost foolish enough to believe you could be happy together for more than a few fleeting moments of frenzied fucking. Still, your heart throbs in your chest for the impending consequences of what you have just done — you aren’t allowed to love him.

He searches your face for the answer to a question he has not yet asked as he draws an invisible tear down the side of your face with the line of his smallest finger.

His voice is thick and heady with indiscernible emotion when he speaks.

“Say it again.”

You shouldn’t. You ought to shut up, send him away, implore him to forget he ever learned your name, but you cannot.

You push up on your elbows to slot your mouth against his — kissing him to make him believe you, to somehow pass through him and whisper the closest kept secrets of your heart to his.

You wrap your arms around his neck and press yourself to him, feeling the sticky drag of his chest hair against your peaked, sensitive nipples as he moves to snake an arm around your midsection.

“I love you,” you breathe against his lips. “I lov-”

He surges forward and kisses you again, a bruising press of his lips hard enough that you can barely move your mouth to return the gesture.

Your breath hitches in your throat as he suddenly rolls his hips, drawing back and thrusting in once more as he falls into a punishing pace, spurred into action by the admission — the reciprocation — of your feelings.

You brace a hand against the rattling headboard, clanging against the wall in time with the jostling of the bed frame, your high breathy voice answering the deeper timber of his own as he fucks into you in desperate search of his climax.

The coil in your belly grows tight and white hot again and you can feel the muscles in his abdomen growing tense against you.

In no time, his thrusting grows sloppy and erratic as he nears his finish and you grow eager for your own. He banishes your fingers with an aggressive swipe as they scrabble down to brush tight circles over your swollen nub, electing to get the job done himself. You jolt up needily against the calloused flesh of his thumb, abusing that tender bundle of nerves at a rapid-fire pace.

It boils over all too quickly.

Before you can think to open your mouth, warn him of your impending climax, you’ve come up and over, and the coil in your belly snaps.

Your body goes rigid, and you tremble with the agony of your ecstasy, washing over you like the surf, wave after powerful wave knocking you back again before you’ve had time to take a breath. You gasp out a strangled cry and dig your fingers into his arms, Enjolras’s pace only briefly faltering as your walls clench on him like a vice. He continues to fuck into you through your orgasm, stretching the release as far as it will go until you’ve strayed the line of overstimulation and you’re scrambling to try and get away from his punishing touch.

Thankfully, he is not far behind you.

He rolls his hips one, twice, thrice more before he’s pulling you as tight to him as he can manage, burying his face into the expanse of dewy flesh between your heaving breasts and spilling into you with a low guttural moan.

It’s almost enough to have you climaxing again, and you would have cried out at the bright, warm sensation flooding up against the quivering walls of your heat, if your voice were not trapped in your throat. He rolls his hips with each ropey spurt he leaves in you until finally he is spent and he collapses on top of you with a sigh of relief and the dead weight of his whole body.

Time ceases to matter, stretching infinitely before you as you lay together, breathing in tandem. Your lungs protest as they fight to expand, crushed into the mattress beneath him as you are, but you ignore their haughty complaints.

You consider never getting up, letting him slip beneath your skin and live like this in the bright, hazy moments of afterglow with sweat drying tacky on your bodies, the evidence of your joint efforts oozing from out between your legs around his softening cock. You sigh out your contentment, drawing lazy patterns across his back and relishing in how perfect this moment is, without the world pressing in on you.

Enjolras’s chest expands against you as he breathes deep and exhales, and you imagine the exhaustion tugging at him, threatening to lull him to sleep in your arms. You card your fingers through his hair, petting him and listening to the little pleased hums it draws from the hollow of his throat.

You could let yourself love him like this, almost imagining that you are in the life he’s promised you, tucked safely away in a little home, far removed from Paris and the troubles of your lives. Still, nothing lasts forever, and the gentle nagging of consequences begins to tug at you.

You can suddenly hear hushed, giggling voices outside your door and you grit your teeth against the violent feeling they stir in you.

Nasty little voyeurs.

You drum your fingers gently over Enjolras’s bicep and apply the slightest amount of pressure, prompting him to roll off and away from you so that you might sit up. You shiver at the jarring emptiness of his slipping out of you and you push up from the bed, crossing to the wash basin on shaky legs.

In your perfect life, you wouldn’t have to be so quick to wash him from you. You could relish in the sensation of being filled, the possibility of bearing his children, but this is not your perfect life, so you wet a rag and make quick work of cleaning yourself up.

You fetch your dressing down from where it lays discarded on the floor and shrug into it.

“Do you want me to go?” You hear Enjolras ask then, his voice thick and raw.

He’s sitting up against the headboard, breathing a little easier now though still so beautifully flushed. You watch him reach up and brush his hair back from his face with a boyish nervousness that plunges a dagger into your heart.

Of course, it occurs to you now how it might seem like a rejection, so hastily sloughing him off.

You smile and cross back to the bed, sinking down into the mattress and tucking yourself in against his body to banish the notion.

“No,” you purr, taking his face in your hands, “I want you to stay.”

The relief that passes over him is palpable as a tension you hadn’t been aware of until that moment clears.

“Did you mean what you said?” He asks you, the rawness of the question so painfully sweet it puts a lump in your throat, “…that you love me?”

Your heart seizes in your chest, because how could he ask you such a question?

As easily as you can fool yourself into thinking it was true.

You watch him watching you, waiting for the faintest hint of a response, and you lean forward to press a gentle kiss to his lips. A brief, chaste peck that ends too soon and leaves you wanting to do it again and again.

You could waste the night kissing him like that, like bright notes of honey you are entirely too greedy for.

His hand flies up to shadow yours against his face, keeping you there as he turns into your touch and presses a gentle kiss to your palm.

But now you’ve left the question unanswered too long, and the faintest hint of that hurt look is back in his eyes.

“Do you love me?”

You hate to do it, but you have to address the consequences of your actions. You have to be practical for both your sakes.

“Of course I do, mon Chéri,” you sigh, “And you love me, but what does it matter when you have the revolution? Your citizen meetings and all the people who look to you for guidance?”

“What has one got to do with the other?” He huffs, “I love you independently of my duty to the revolution–”

You furrow your brow, because one has everything to do with the other. You are surprised at how he could be blind to that.

You think that perhaps it is a willful blindness.

“My love, you do nothing independent of your duty to the revolution when you are its leader.”

His jaw tightens and his brows come together as he immediately rejects the notion.

“I’m not–” he snaps, then takes a breath, taking up your hand as he corrects himself and speaks a little more gently, “No, I’m not … there are no leaders among us.”

You do your best to ignore the hurt that flashes across his face when you take your hand back.

“Oh no? And who do you think they’ll come for when the city is burning and the aristocracy cries out for someone to hang? Will you send someone else to the noose?”

He shakes his head in a way that you think is perhaps too petulant for someone in his position, with his resolve.

“It won’t come to that.” He says.

“Won’t it?” You press, and then you add with a biting tone, “Are you so unwilling to be a martyr to your cause?”

Enjolras levels you with an incredulous look, something almost halfway to hurt as he turns those big dark eyes on you. He is looking at you like he can’t believe what you’re saying, like you’re rejecting him.

“Why are we talking about this?” He implores, “What does it matter?”

“It matters if you love me. There is no room for love in revolution — you’re the one who preaches that.” you press, leaning into him when he looks away, defiant of his own words.

“I preach nothing.” He says sullenly.

“Don’t make yourself a hypocrite, Enjolras. Don’t give them that to use against you.”

You know he knows this, and were he not so caught in the vice of his feelings he would agree with you, but you also know he doesn't want to hear it anymore than you want to say it.

The silence that blooms between you is tense. You watch him flex his jaw and listen to him breathe, and you wonder if you’ve gone and ruined a perfectly splendid moment for nothing.

Then again what do you know about martyrs and causes? Perhaps you are wrong and it is not impossible, simply improbable.

Somehow you highly doubt that.

You sigh and bring your knees up to hug against your chest.

“Forgive me…” you begin, “It’s not my place to say it. I shouldn’t—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“Would you come away with me if I asked?”

It is another shocking, bell-clanging moment, along the same vein of your own confession.

You’re fully aware of how you’re gawping at him, but you can hardly believe he even said it as the question lingers between you. The sudden change has you laughing, for shock rather than unkindness.

He remains steely in his resolve and waits for your answer.

“Come away with you?” You echo, and your heart thumps in anticipation of the answer you cannot give him — yes of course.

It’s all you’ve ever wanted. Still, humor is the soothing balm to the way your heart cries out in protest because you cannot go, no matter how desperately you want to ... and yet...

Not impossible... simply improbably...

“What could you possibly offer me enticing enough to abandon my life here, living in the lap of luxury?” You ask, beaming as you gesture grandly to the modest room, with its peeling wallpaper and holes in the ceiling.

In a strident contrast to the way you poke fun, Enjolras is serious as the plague as he takes up your hands again.

“I would offer you everything I have.” He says earnestly, “My life — my fidelity.”

The heat of his gaze is intense enough to have you turning shy and looking down at your hands, at the way he’s caressing your knuckles with the pad of his thumb.

You're laughing again, suddenly giddy with possibility.

“Your fidelity? You would abandon your true love? All your work for the revolution? For me?”

He nods.

“For you, I would leave tonight.”

You hum thoughtfully, dropping your chin to the sinewy muscle of his shoulder.

“What about life and liberation of the working class?”

His voice is soft when he answers, rattling in his chest with a deeply tired sigh, like he hasn’t slept in months. You have to wonder whether he ever rests outside of your company.

“Let someone else fight for a change.” He says, his eyes growing distant. It is entirely uncharacteristic of him, and enough to make you think he might be serious.

He would leave — with you, no less — leave all that he knows behind for a love that is forbidden. How wonderfully uncharacteristic of him.

What a story yours is. A common whore and a jaded revolutionary.

How terribly cliche.

And then like a proposal, he moves so that he is kneeling in front of you, his soul bare for you to judge and do with what you like.

“Come away with me.” He says, “Be my wife.”

You cannot speak, your tongue has suddenly turned to cotton in your throat. You imagine saying yes, leaving tonight, but your heart is torn.

You could marry him, but with what money? He cannot afford to keep you and without an income, you cannot afford not to work. And what would leaving mean for the lives you left behind?

What would happen to girls like Marie and Clotilde without your guardianship? How many revolutions have died in their infancy because lesser men than Enjolras decided to leave the fight to someone else?

Amidst all these worries and questions, another series springs to the front of your mind and branches out, growing wild with reckless abandon.

Why does it all rest on your shoulders?

Why is it not enough just to be lovers?

It is a pretty dream, your other life in a little house, married happily and rearing curly-haired children with their father’s dark eyes — why should you be doomed to live your life resigned to dreaming?

Why? Why why why? ...Why not?

For half a moment, you watch Enjorlas crumple before you, like he is anticipating the rejection.

Your heart breaks for him.

How conflicting it must be to balance his two selves, the stalwart revolutionary with the desperate romantic.

If only his compatriots knew how he suffered for the revolution, you fear they would tear him to pieces.

You would shield him from that if you could.

You bring your hand up to cup his jaw on one side, and then the other, and you draw him to you.

"Your fidelity won't put bread on my table," you say softly, "But I would take it if you let me, if only because you offered it to me."

His eyes widen ever so briefly, and his face splits into that big, shining grin again. He laughs, too struck to speak like he had already resigned himself to the slow death of your impending rejection, and to hear the opposite has wiped clean the slate of his mind.

You love it when he's speechless.

You can’t stop your lips from quirking up into a shy smile. “Unless you didn’t mean it–?” You tease, but he doesn't let you finish, crashing forward to press a bruising kiss to your lips.

“I meant it.” He says quickly, breathlessly between kisses – his hands come up to grasp your shoulders and hold you to the spot, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t have a hand on you, you’ll slip away.

You smile against his lips.

“Then I will come away with you.”

You let him kiss you and bask in the unbridled warmth blooming in your chest because now you never have to stop.

There is nothing more to keep you apart. He is yours to have as you please forever, and you are his.

Somewhere, in the belly of the house, you think you hear the slamming of the front door, the telltale commotion of the Madam's return, but you can't make yourself care. This is the last night you'll spend in this wretched place, the last time you'll have to steal for a moment of intimacy with the man you love. You think on what Enjolras said before, about letting someone else fight for a change, and while you know he won't stop his fighting, you resign yourself to letting go of your own battles with a strange lightness.

You know he won't give up on the revolution. She is the other woman in his life, after all, but you are pleasantly surprised to find that you don't mind sharing him.

You’d been so worried he would make a romantic out of you, you’d never once considered he might make a revolutionary out of you.

A courtesan turned revolutionary’s wife — how perfectly wonderful.

[stardancerluv]

A Time to Fight and to Love

Part Thirty - Three

Summary: Thoughts of the past and the future come together.

Notes/Warnings: angst, thoughts of one’s life, mention of one’s death.

A few translations:

Are you well, my love? - Tu vas bien, mon amour ?

Yes, my love. I only missed you is all when a nightmare had struck. - Oui mon amour. Tu ne m'as manqué que lorsqu'un cauchemar a frappé.

My love, my angel you and our child is a gift, I never thought would be given to me but they were. - Mon amour, mon ange, toi et notre enfant êtes un cadeau, je n'aurais jamais pensé qu'il me serait offert mais ils l'étaient.

❤️s, comments, feedback & reblogs are always welcome! Thank you for reading. We are beginning to near the end! 🥹

With a start, you awoke turning you looked for Enjolras for solace but he wasn’t there. His side of the bed was cold.

Perhaps, he was in his study. Pulling the blanket aside, you got out of bed. Holding up some of your chemise as to not trip, you kept to the carpet. Despite, the wooden floorboards being well kept they were too cool for your liking at this hour. They were much better than the ones you had grown used to back home with Mama. She had to be alright, she just had to be. However, those floorboards would creak with only a mere at gaze upon them and snagged all of your dresses.

The warmth from the fire that burned was what greeted you first upon opening the door.

“Tu vas bien, mon amour ?”

You glanced towards in the direction of the raspy voice, that reassured and made your heart skip beats. In front of the flickering flames, you spied the silhouette that could only ever belong to Enjolras.

“Oui mon amour. Tu ne m'as manqué que lorsqu'un cauchemar a frappé.”

“I am sorry my love.” He glanced up at you before draininy the liquid in the glass, he held. Moving the glass to his other hand, he patted a place beside him. “Come sit beside me.”

Just being near him once again and you relaxed.

Wrapping an arm around you, he held you close. You could just get a whiff of the spicy liquid he had been sipping at.

“Did sleep elude you?”

“Yes.”

As you glanced at him, he made a face. “Despite all the fretting at getting mother settled in, I still could not get ahold of sleep.”

“It will be nice to have her here.”

He rose an eyebrow as your eyes met.

“Mostly. I still cannot believe that Beatrice and her were familiar with each other. She is certainly a very determined woman.”

“She raised an equally, determined son.”

He chuckled. You loved that sound.

He drained what was left in his glass, before placing the glass on the table beside the two of you.

“Yes.” He nodded. “Yes, she did do that.”

“Enjolras, what is plaguing you?”

Hmm? He made a questioning sound as he rose his eyebrows.

You sat up the best you could with your growing tummy. At the moment, the baby seemed to be relaxed or at the very least comfortable and wasn’t moving and turning like they liked to do more often than not these days.

He didn’t look at you.

“Enjolras, look at me.”

His dark eyes moved from the flickering flames to you and once more were back fixed on the flames.

“I know that it is something other than the arrival of your mother.”

His mouth formed a line, he swallowed.

“The solider who has been hunting me has arrived. I do believe, he has taken up with one of the barmaids. And he has enjoyed some card games with her and others.”

“Oh? Oh!” Now you were the one who looked away. “What are you going to do?”

“I sent word for Bellamy to join me at the tavern, tomorrow night. And I shall go and meet my destiny.” He exhaled.

“Don’t talk like that.” Your emotions flared.

He took your hand and squeezed it.

“Mon amour, mon ange, toi et notre enfant êtes un cadeau, je n'aurais jamais pensé qu'il me serait offert mais ils l'étaient.” He pressed his lips together. “I should already be dead, I should have died at the barricade.”

“No, no! Don’t talk like that. You were given a chance to be with me, to be a father. You have to hold me a little longer, you have to hold our child.”

A tear escaped and slide down your cheek.

You trembled as his warm hand cupped your cheek, his thumb wiping away the tear.

“I, I…”

Any words, any other sentiment you could have shared were silenced as his lips met yours.

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[stardancerluv]

A Time to Love and to Fight

Part Twenty - Five

Summary: Reader mingles on the ship while facing a fear.

Notes/Warnings: Fluffy, enjoy! Dated notions on marriage & Father/daughter relationships. Mention/Example of Physical Abuse. Discussions of sexuality.

❤️s, reblogs, comments & feedback is always welcome.

English to French in this chapter: Wife of the young and bold Julien - Madame du jeune et hardi Julien

Go away, rat - va-t'en, rat card game - belote

You had managed to make it to the heavy door that opened to the parlor suite. Through the door, you could hear the your husband and the others. They all sounded so happy and in good spirits. It pleased you to hear such merriment. It had felt like a lifetime since you heard joy in his voice that you had not been the source of.

You paused. Glancingp down at your gloved hand, you opened and closed your hand; you raised it to knock then lowered it. A grimace curled your lips.

“Oh? Madame du jeune et hardi Julien?”

You turned. You attempted a winning smile. “Yes?”

“Will you we grace us ladies with your presence ?”

“I suppose, I could for a short while.”

“Wonderful.”

********

You sipped at the spicy wine, they offered you.

“You are a lucky one. Your husband, is young and beautiful.”

You flushed and looked down, nodding.

“Oh, don’t be shy about that. Your father was kind to give you such a husband.”

A knot formed in your stomach at the word father. Though you were certain he would have approved of Enjolras.

“Tell us, is as kind to you as he is beautiful.”

You tilted your head to one side. “What do you mean?” You looked over the three other ladies.

They shared looks.

A slender one who looked as if a shadow had fallen over her youth spoke. “Mine, loves to have affairs with the ladies of soldiers. He feels he is giving something back to our military for their efforts. One didn’t take to kindly to it. And that is why we are on this ship.”

Your heart lurched.

The older one, she was pale and eyes as clear as pond a clear spring day spoke next. “Mine, will hit me if he feels I am not up to his standards of behavior. I finally bore him a son, he is coming with the nanny on another ship.”

“Show her.” Said the young one.

She nodded, she let her scarf dip from her shoulders and lifted up the sleeve on on arm and sure enough there was a vivd blue and purple bruise.

You swallowed hard, you grew ill.

“And well,”

Finally the woman that could have been as old as your mother or Greta who had invited you to join them in the salon spoke.

“I am actually pleased with what is not customary to find out about a husband.”

She took a sip of the spicy wine.

“He loves beautiful, young men.”

There was a scuff and suppressed chortle.

“Hey now, at least I don’t have to worry about him having any bastards begging for money and at least he doesn’t hit me.”

The others nodded at that.

“And well, he’s happy so I am happy. We have a good life.”

She fretted on one of her sleeves.

“I get to have a nice house and nice things”

She chewed on her bottom lip. “Though, he did have an affair with a lord’s son and killed the man’s father in a duel. So off to London for us.”

You were pleased this wasn’t so terrible. And you knew Greta had been very happy with one of the maids before she had passed of a high fever. It had been tragic. It one loved who they loved. Her father taught her that.

“So dear, tell us your husband almost looks like he could have walked down the clouds of heaven. As beautiful as an angel. Is he as saintly as one?”

You chuckled at that. “No but he is a good man. Loves his ale, a good card game.”

“Then is good we whisked you away. He deserves to have a good belote and a tankard of whatever they are passing as ale on this ship.”

******

Feeling a twinge of warmth and cloying nature of the wine you decided to retire back to the cabin you shared with Enjolras.

Hands fluttered and glasses clinked at your departure.

*******

Squeak, the sound was far louder then it should have been. In the flickering light the candle valences you spotted a large rat directly in your path. He looked up at you. You took a step back.

Unease twisted in you.

In your minds eyes you could see your father urging you to be brave, Enjolas’s gentle teasing but encouragement was there as well. You could do this.

You stepped up and shook your skirt in its direction.

“Va-t'en, rat!” You shouted.

He rubbed his front paws and squeaked again.

Once again you shook your skirt and shouted even louder. “Va-t'en, rat!”

Warm hands glided from your elbows to your wrists. “Allow me to rescue once again, my angel.”

You would have screamed if the raspiness of Enjolras’s voice had not filled your ears, or if his touch did not always bring you comfort. His beard, however trimmed earlier tickled your cheek. “Watch how I handle it.”

You both glanced at each other and shared a nod before he pulled away from you.

His coat flapped as he brought down his black booted foot down close to it. And his shout exploded from his lips. It even made you tremble.

The rat hissed but then turned and walked a little lower along the corridor floor gave a final squeak and disappeared once again into the shadows.

He turned to you, his lips curled into a smirk. “That is how you do it.”

******

He was barely able to slide the lock into place as you grabbed him by then lapels of his coat. You had a flush in your cheeks and your eyes twinkled.

“You are the best my love.” Your voice, bubbled from you and filled the small room.

Wobbly from the warmth of his own ale, he held his ground before managing to sit down on the bed. With sheer delight he watched as you gathered up the skirts of your dress and soon placed yourself in his lap. Happily, he wrapped his arms around you.

“I am glad you feel so inclined.”

“I do.”

You gently tugged on his lapels before moments later he felt your warm breath, he distantly smelled something spicy. Did you have wine while the two of you were apart? He found it amusing. He also relished the feel of your soft kisses you planted them all over his face. Laughter in his pure amusement poured from his lips. Now if only he could catch you with his own kisses.

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[stardancerluv]

Hello! I love writing. I try & proofread but I have dyslexia so there will be typos! (Sorry!) I also will always try and do justice to the concept of reader…who will always be Fem!Reader! There are some amazing writers, @mlmxreader @ronaldrx who are fantastic at Male Reader. I would not want to stomp on their territory! (Please don’t creep on their accounts!)

My writing is always for 18+ Even the fluffy ones since they may or may not reference issues that I don’t want someone 18 & younger to read.

I enjoyed Stranger Things since season 1. Steve & his friendship with Robin and Dustin…love it so much. I watched season 4 & I fell hard for Eddie Munson & Joseph Quinn!

So please… no drama! Comments…reblogs & feedback is always welcome! Finally, I do have a tag list..want on it? Just ask!! Thank you for reading!!!

I love what Joseph Quinn did with Eddie.

I decided to write my own version of Eddie that weaves in and out of the events of the season!

Blossoming of a Shy Violet 👈🏻 (click here to find current and track new chapter release!) Eddie is currently paused (wow! sorry didn’t realize its been so long!)

Summary

—-Eddie encounters the new girl in school after addressing his fellow students in the cafeteria. She is reluctant to get to know anyone. Can Eddie change her mind?

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader. It includes…fluffy, angsty, & smutty moments. 18 only….DNI if you are a minor.

Warning: includes (not limited to)… Esteem issues, bullying, murder referenced, underage drinking Virgin!Reader, oral m&f, PV sex, fingering, dom!Eddie (to a name a few)

Pumpkin and the Beast (click here for current and up to date chapter listings!)

——Bookworm, cutesy fem!reader gets into trouble at a party Eddie rescues her. It’s an established friendship, a few months in the making. Will explore what happens when opposites come together?

Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader. It will include…fluff, angst, & perhaps smutty moments. 18 only….DNI if you are a minor.

Studying English Literature in college, I became a fan of Les Miserables. I enjoyed the various versions. I had never heard of the BBC!Version (till Joe) Enjolras was one of my favorite characters…viva revolution! I decided to write a story around him.

A Time to Love and To Fight 👈🏻 (click here to find current and track new chapter release!)

new chapters coming soon!!!

Summary

——Reader is her own girl. She has to take care of her household. By accident, she runs into Enjolras.

This story is Enjolras x Fem!Reader. This story now contains angst, fluff & smut!

Warning: French Revolution mind set (gonna try and capture this!) War themes, sickness, dated view of women!

I watched Catherine the Great & fell for Prince Paul. Growing up I heard many stories about Russia. This is why the story will be an AU of Prince Paul.

By the Light of the Silvery Moon (click here for new parts!)

—-Prince Paul has to deal with his mother & all of Russia. Its not long before he meets fem!reader & is engaged. Now he has to juggle that & the Russian court. Shortly, he weds his mother sends him away and he will not return the same Paul.

Warning: There will be fluff, angst, smut & supernatural elements! And lastly the reader is a fem!reader.

There Will Never Be Another You

Part One

Part Two

This is my attempt at writing a story for Grunauer. He truly deserved better then the cards he was dealt. Here I will try and do him justice.

Warning: There will be flufff…angst…smut and there may be some supernatural elements to it. Also will have a lot of dated thoughts on men & women. This will show how how be also will have a fem!reader. Enjoy!

All ❤️s, reblogs & feedback are welcome!

What the Emperor Wants

👆🏻(Link to master list) 👆🏻

Emperor Geta has recently acquired “reader” she is to do with as he pleases. What does that really mean? We are gonna learn what is to belong to Emperor Geta.

It will have mature themes throughout it!

❤️s, comments, feedback, & reblogs are always welcome!

Hello! 👋🏻 Like I said above…Been a fan of Stranger Things since season 1. Saw Eddie and fell hard for him & Joe. Steve’s arch is by far one of my fav bits of the show. There are so many…so many amazing Steve fanfics out there.

Never felt the need write one. That said, I do enjoy Joe Keery’s work. Most recently…Fargo Season 5 & Marmalade! Can’t wait to see Finally Dawn. That said, Fargo Season 5…his character Gator Tillman…has me in a strangle hold.

The Past Follows Like a Shadow

(Link leads to the chapters! 👆🏻)

This story is an AU to Fargo Season 5.

Gator Tillman…had a childhood friend who turned into a girlfriend till his dad put the kibosh to it. That girl is back in town. What will that mean for Gator…what will it mean to her??

All ❤️s, reblogs & feedback are welcome!

A Space Journey

👆🏻(link to master list) 👆🏻

Tyler Harrison, is a tough salvager working and & living on Jackson Star Mining Colony. He’s there with family and friends…and his girl. The company reaches out… enjoy!

18+ themes. Angst, Fluff & Smut

❤️s, reblogs, comments & feedback is always welcome’

P. S. In case…there is anyone still looking or wanting to read some Ewan McGregor fan-fiction & his amazing characters. Ewan McGregor Master List 👈🏻 Click here for all my Ewan McGregor Fan-fiction)