Lucien Enjolras

"Then let me say only thy name," says Laertes. Rather than taking the offered hand, he reaches into the drawer of the bedside table and pulls out a jar of salve that Claudius had brewed for him. When he works the lid off, the scent that rises into the air is oily, thick, faintly herbal. (Laertes can't help feeling a hot, deep pang of arousal every time he smells it; Claudius has trained him well.) "Enjolras," he murmurs as he dips his finger in the salve and smooths it over Enjolras's hole. Finally, he leans down to let Enjolras gather him close. "Enjolras, thou hast a savor all thine own."