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[untamedantinous]

Enjolras is on a mission. It is not in the least like any of the self-imposed missions he has given himself in the past; but he is as determined as he ever is. (Yes, he will admit to himself that this is a distraction, but it is a new and pleasant one; and he could do with some pleasant and educational exercises in good company.)

With that in mind, as stubborn as ever, he goes in search of Laertes. He is certainly more sober than he was yesterday, having spent his morning in consideration and working on some writing—one of those pamphlets for Magnus they had been speaking of. His fingers show the evidence of that, they are smudged and have a few ink blots on them; but he is smiling nonetheless as he knocks at Laertes’ door. There he stands, waiting sober as a priest; although it is hard to say that considering the still apparent bruises at his throat that were too difficult to hide with a cravat.

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[untamedantinous]

“Yours,” he echoes, closing his eyes, and it’s a prayer; though he is not a praying man, it is hard to let himself be incoherent, to truly let himself go; but that lick makes him shudder and reach for Laertes’ hair, fisting a hand in it to ground himself at least somewhat. “Oh, more…”

[timebethine]

Laertes sighs at the pressure of that hand in his hair--he sinks down a little, taking Enjolras in his mouth, circling his tongue and tracing every ridge and curve of the head. He brings his hands up to scratch slow, shallow lines down Enjolras's thighs, hips to knees, over and over again.

[untamedantinous]

It is a good thing he has a hand in Laertes’ hair, because he feels like he could float away. He has, at last, given up on words; instead just pulling at the other man’s hair with the hand that is there, sharp tugs that coincide with his shaky breaths.

[timebethine]

And for a while, Laertes drifts in the pleasure of service. He lets his mouth fall slack and easy, lets Enjolras fill him up with a warm, comfortable weight; he breathes slow and deep through his nose. He lets that hand in his hair be a guide, pulling off when they tug him back and sinking down further every time they press him in.

[untamedantinous]

Enjolras is trembling, though he would be loath to admit to it. He is close; he can tell, it feels like fire running through his veins and he cannot help but arch his hips a little as well, trying his best to be careful as he tugs at Laertes’ hair again.

[timebethine]

Laertes grins around Enjolras at that little hitch of the hips--his lips draw tight with it, and a chuckle vibrates through Enjolras's skin. Freeing a hand, Laertes cups and strokes Enjolras's balls one after the other, then lets them go and runs a dry fingertip over Enjolras's hole.

[untamedantinous]

He doesn’t quite know what he’s doing; but it feels right and it feels good and —oh. Enjolras’ eyes go wide and dark, so dark one could drown in them, and he lets out a hungry, low noise he is mostly unaware of, hitching his hips upward again.

[timebethine]

That noise goes through Laertes like a gunshot; he shudders to his toes at it. Pulling off for a moment, Laertes turns his gaze up to Enjolras. His eyes are as fathomlessly, drowningly dark. "Wouldst have me touch inside of thee?" he asks, voice wrecked and wicked.

[untamedantinous]

He can’t even find words for an answer, but he nods, reaching to cup Laertes’ face with his hand. “Please,” he finally manages, voice just as rough and hungry for something he cannot quite name.

“Ah, you are lovely.”

[timebethine]

Then Laertes rises to kiss Enjolras again--his mouth is raw, now, and there's more hunger than art to the kiss; he presses into it and breathes in sharply through his nose. "A fine pair we make, then," he says at the kiss's end. "I love to see thee undone like this. Thou wert not made to be untouchable; thou wert made for sweat and blushes. Lie back for me, sweet. Let me touch thee."

[untamedantinous]

Enjolras kisses back, just as hungry and messy. He can taste himself on Laertes’ lips, and it only serves to pull his senses a little more taut.

“I do not feel sweet,” with half a smirk; but he does shift his weight further back on the bed, offering a hand to pull Laertes down with him.

[timebethine]

"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."

[untamedantinous]

“You may call me Lucien,” and it’s half a laugh, burying his face into the crook of Laertes’ shoulder and wrapping his arms around him.

“I think we are well past that point,” he adds, quiet, taking a moment to run his nails down Laertes’ spine.

[timebethine]

"Lucien," he says, and thinks, Lux, light. He circles and strokes with his left hand, not pressing in but teasing it, promising it. "Lucien, thou pleasest me so well--let thyself be wild with me; I can bear it--"

[untamedantinous]

That is very nearly a whine, and he drags his nails down Laertes’ back again, sharper this time, biting at where he had been nuzzling earlier. He settles to his task, then, digging in his nails from time to time as he continues biting and kissing where he left off, intending to leave a mark if he can.

[timebethine]

And Laertes revels in the sweet, tender violence of it; he is an instrument in Lucien's hands, vocal and inarticulate, gasping and crying out at every press of nails and every delicious bite. He grinds himself against the hollow of Lucien's hip even as he slips the tip of his finger in.

[untamedantinous]

Enjolras smiles to see his reactions, biting harder, pressing here and there, until he pulls away from Laertes’ shoulder to press a biting, hungry kiss to his lips, deep and wanting. He does still a bit when he feels the intrusion, letting his eyes close as he tries to get accustomed to this new feeling.

“You are driving me mad,” he says, voice husky and trembling.

[timebethine]

"Should I stop?" asks Laertes, but it's more teasing than serious. "Or wouldst thou be driven mad?"

[untamedantinous]

The only answer he gives is an almost bruising kiss; tongue and teeth and pleased noises all pointing to one thing. He’s fairly sure Laertes can divine his meaning from that; and if not, then he only needs to look down a bit and see the evidence for himself.

[timebethine]

Never has Laertes lamented impetuousness more than today, when he wants to hold that bruising kiss and at the same time take Lucien in hand and teach him how it feels to come with a finger inside him. Instead, reluctantly leaving the kiss, Laertes crawls back down to take Lucien in his mouth again. He sucks harder now (there is the slightest pressure of teeth), intent upon nothing but Lucien's release. Laertes sinks his finger in a little deeper, past the first knuckle and to the second, just deep enough to graze Lucien's prostate with the tip of his finger.

[untamedantinous]

“Oh-“ He is trembling in earnest now, arching into Laertes’ mouth heedless of anything else. “Yes, again, almost…”

He is so close, he can feel it like a precipice that he is close to falling off of, and the feeling makes him squirm with pleasure, taking in hungry gasps of air.

[timebethine]

Laertes takes him in until his eyes water, until his throat shudders and clenches; he drives his finger in deeper, crooking it and stroking as though beckoning Lucien to fall.

[untamedantinous]

And fall he does, with a loud groan as his release finally comes. The fire running through his veins feels familiar, similar enough and yet different from how he feels in the midst of a battle; but the sense of exertion is the same.

“Ah, I am —“ He fumbles for his words, coming back to himself from, it seems, a far off place, a faint haze of pleasure still coloring his voice. “Did I hurt you; I am sorry..”

[timebethine]

"Illuminated me," Laertes rasps, and surges up to steal a kiss--long, rough, dizzyingly deep. "Thou hast set me among the stars, and made of me a constant flame."

[untamedantinous]

“Have I?” He licks at his lips a little after that kiss, grinning like the cat that’s got into the cream, and moves to settle his arms around Laertes, content.

“That was—“ He starts, thoughtful, voice still a little hoarse, and continues: “incandescent, if I may borrow your metaphor. I can see the appeal.”