hadrianuscorruit:

It’s like a sickness that comes over him — one
minute  he’s  killed  a  political  figure  and the
next  he  is  desperately  seeking  out   human
contact,  seeking  out a way to relieve himself
of the thick cords of tension wrapping around
his    muscles,    controlling   his   movements,
making  it  harder  to  breathe —  as if without
these strings he  will dissolve into nothing but
a shell.

It isn’t ROMANTIC—- not by any means.  It
is animalistic, it’s a twisted addiction that he
cannot rid himself of. It’s the clash of tongue
and teeth, the grate of hips mercilessly willing
the other to BEND to his will. It’s a fight for
dominance that can never be won, and it
leaves Grantaire panting and tugging at the
front of Enjolras’ shirt, as if he can press the
air from between them and envelop the other
man whole. His lips are greedy and desperate,
and the taste of ruby blood does not turn him
away, but simply edges him on.

                    (They are two TITANS on the brink of destruction —-
                      brought upon by their own hands. )

:: { ℑ⋅ℇ } ─ ─ ─ ::

           There’s a st-st-stutter to his hips,
         a harsh gasp torn from swollen lips
         as he tries to B R E A T H E. Enjolras
         finds the world pin-wheeling, vision
         narrowed to this, to the scrape of nails
         on his stomach, the jump of muscles
         and the way Grantaire tastes; the stale
         cigarettes and soured alcohol and the
          V   I  S  C  E  R  A  L  instinct to claim.

                                                                                    (  NO, his mind screams. NOT YET.
                                                                          what is it that they say about the meeting
                                                                     immoveable object and unstoppable force? )

             His hand shoots out. The kiss breaks.
          But  o n l y  for as long as it takes him to
          pull wandering fingers away from his body,
          to circle his fingers around that wrist and
          push it up, against the  W A L L . They fall 
          back onto each other, lips on lips and a
          thrum of energy expending out their chests.

                                                                                  (    no words– there are no words.   )