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“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,” murmurs Grantaire. The words follow the path of his fingers, ghosting over the pale skin of Montparnasse’s back. He imagines freckles, his fingertips tracing constellations from one invisible spot to another. He can feel the contours of the muscle in Montparnasse’s back, and how the hardness shifts to give way to the movements of his hand. Montparnasse breathes in on each downward stroke of Grantaire’s fingers, the dipping line of his backbone deepening so that it is a dark gouge among paleness. The room is still hazy from the smoke of their pipes, wisps swirling in the red-gold glow of the candles.
Perhaps it is the remnants of the herbal pipe mixture Jehan had given him, or perhaps it is the satisfaction of touching someone so intimately, but Grantaire feels contentment thrumming in his veins. It is magnified by omission - the ache that is deep in his bones has vanished, replaced instead with this overwhelming sense of happiness. Grantaire does not know what to do with such excess of emotion.
(Grantaire does not know what to do with happiness.)
Sighing, Montparnasse turns so that he is on his back. Grantaire’s fingers skid across Montparnasse’s side until they rest on his chest. “But in ourselves, that we are underlings.” Grantaire whispers the words against the pink flesh of Montparnasse’s nipple. It hardens immediately, a slight flush spreading down that alabaster throat.
Montparnasse’s eyes glitter like shards of the sharpest obsidian. When he speaks, his voice is silk over steel, charm and sweetness cloying the rotting architecture that is Montparnasse’s soul underneath. Grantaire wants to plunge his hand into his lover’s chest, dig under bones and sinew to find Montparnasse’s heart. Would it beat in his palm, he wonders? Or would it be as still, as solemn as the rest of him, cracked marble caked with the blood of whoever dared cross him? Both thoughts thrill Grantaire. He is no stranger to sickness, whether of the heart, the mind, or the body. It is why he is so drawn to Montparnasse; Grantaire has never been skilled in the art of self-preservation. His vices, once established, take hold of him. They root themselves in his very being until they are a part of him, distorting into obsessions with the passage of time.
Montparnasse is the best and worst of obsessions.
“No Catullus tonight?” Montparnasse asks. “Will you not recite to me the Dionysiaca? An Epic?”
“You are not one for poetry, my dear Montparnasse,” Grantaire replies. Montparnasse’s hair is thick underneath his touch, the strands so dark that Grantaire idly wonders if his fingers would come away stained of ink. The boy’s lips are red, as though he has been sucking on flesh of ripe berries, and Grantaire dips his head to taste them.
“He had a sweet dream of his dreambreeding bed, beheld the shadowy phantom of a counterfeit shape and whispered loving words to the mocking vision of the boy,” he whispers when he draws away. Montparnasse’s lips are open, his breath moving past them languidly. His body, stretched on the bed, is lithe, as though he could pounce suddenly. He is wild.
(Savagery dances in his veins. Cruelty hides in the corners of his smirk. Charm glows in the blush of his cheeks. Something tells Grantaire that he should not classify as human, for this jagged piece of glass of a man surely must be other.
Grantaire has met one other who exudes beauty and charm, yet has terribleness lurking underneath his surface. It does not escape him that he is addicted to a double-edged sword. When he falls, he will fall because of his own folly, and by his own hand he will impale himself on a gilded knife.)
“If his passionate gaze saw any blemish, this appeared lovely to lovesick Dionysos, even more dear than the whole young body; if the end of the tail which grew on him hung slack by his loins, this was sweeter than honey to Bacchos.” As Grantaire speaks, his lips murmuring against Montparnasse’s ear, the hand not imbedded in black hair travels a path down Montparnasse’s hardened chest. His fingers latch on to the dip of Montparnasse’s tapering waist, feeling the muscle tighten underneath his touch before relaxing minutely. He continues his exploration, tracing the words his mouth shapes into the prickling flesh of Montparnasse’s inner thigh.
“Catullus,” Montparnasse gasps. His hands rise to sink into Grantaire’s curls.
He hides his smiles in Montparnasse’s neck. “Do you want me to whisper filth into your ear as I bring you to completion?”
“Yes.”
Grantaire does not love things - he covets them. And so he covets the sharp intake of breath when he wraps his hand around Montparnasse’s cock. His touch is fleeting, the barest drag of skin against skin, raspy and rough to make Montparnasse’s cock start to fill.
“It suits the poet himself to be dutifully chaste,
his verses not necessarily so at all.”
A muted moan flutters in Montparnasse’s chest. Grantaire feels it vibrate against his cheek as he watches his hand loosely circle Montparnasse. His cock in his hand is hard, and he moves downwards to lick a stripe from base to swollen head. He stills, breathes, feels Montparnasse twitch in his hand. His back is to the youth, now, and the scratches across his skin tingle - he can feel Montparnasse’s gaze on them, knows that he takes pride in seeing his mark on someone. That is why Grantaire’s neck is a palette of red and purple with cornflower blue blooming in the deepest bruises.
As though following Grantaire’s train of thought, Montparnasse raises his hands to stretch them across the base of his neck. Pain flares, but it is a delicious pain.
He rewards Montparnasse with the tightening of his hand. The dry friction must hurt, but that is how Montparnasse likes it. And Grantaire likes inflicting pain on his lover as much as he loves receiving it from him. Even at his most depraved, Grantaire is not alone. Few others would entertain thoughts of obtaining sexual gratification from harm - Grantaire and Montparnasse flourish in them.
Drops of precum fall from the tip of Montparnasse’s cock like luminescent pearls, and Grantaire really has to ask Jehan what was in that herbal pipe mix. Everything is soft, muted, except for the rising hunger for flesh inside of his chest. He wraps his lips around the head, the precum salty on his tongue. Pain pricks in his scalp - Montparnasse’s hand in his hair, pulling, demanding more. Even when he is not on top, Montparnasse is always in control. His cock is heavy in Grantaire’s mouth, his hips straining to drive deeper, seeking heat. Grantaire pulls back to draw in air.
“Which, in short then, have wit and good taste
Even if they’re erotic, not modest enough,
And as for that can incite to lust,
I don’t speak to boys, but to hairy ones
Who can’t move their stiff loins.”
Head lowering, he opens his mouth and relaxes his throat. Montparnasse’s cock slowly disappears behind his slick lips, pulling a guttural groan from Montparnasse. Grantaire hums in approval, which sends vibrations down Montparnasse’s cock. Saliva drips from the corners of his mouth, dribbling down his chin. It is a sign of both their desperation; how debauched he must look! To think that he is salivating at being stuffed full of a man’s cock. But he cannot find it in himself to be ashamed - the weight of Montparnasse on his tongue is as sinful and delicious as his taste, and he drags in a sharp breath through his nose when Montparnasse tugs harshly at his hair. It is the undeniable truth: he is depraved and craving, yet so is Montparnasse, and they will not stop until one, the other, or both are destroyed.
Grantaire sucks Montparnasse down with renewed vigour. His own cock is straining against his naked stomach, and their heavy breathing fills the room along with the obscene sounds of Grantaire licking, sucking and gagging on Montparnasse’s cock.
Montparnasse moans hoarsely, his hands in vice-like grips on Grantaire’s hair and neck, and his release must be close because precum is leaking steadily from his cock down Grantaire’s throat. Grantaire swallows the saltiness down. He grazes his teeth across the engorged flesh in the lightest of touches. Montparnasse bucks wildly, pushing himself as deep as possible into the hot, wet cavern of Grantaire’s mouth, a rough yell tearing itself from his throat.
“Grantaire,” he cries out, and it is the first time all night he has vocalised his pleasure.
The sound of Grantaire’s name uttered so brokenly is beautiful. He loves the sparks that race down his spine. Blindly, he gropes for Montparnasse’s thigh, dancing his hand up the muscled tendons, until he reaches the crease of groin joining thigh. He finds the puckered ring of muscle that is Montparnasse’s entrance, driven by the desire to make this beautiful boy come from his ministrations.
The tip of his finger slips in easily, the remaining oil and cum from their previous fucking easing the way. Montparnasse takes him in readily, groaning softly. The sound spurs Grantaire on, and he sucks hard, at the same time pressing his finger in to the knuckle, and twisting.
Montparnasse comes with a rasp. Hot liquid shoots down Grantaire’s throat in long ropes. His finger is still inside Montparnasse, and he keeps it there, still pressing, still twisting, while he continues to milk Montparnasse’s orgasm out of him with his tongue. He wants to wreck him - he is wrecking him.
Montparnasse will wreck him back in kind.
Montparnasse shudders as he hisses out a breath. Grantaire pulls his mouth off the softening cock between his lips when Montparnasse’s hips cease to stutter. He swipes his palm across his mouth, licking at the remaining cum that smears over the crease of his wrist.
“Tease,” Montparnasse cajoles. There is a dark glimmer in his eyes, one which spells out trouble. Grantaire should be afraid, but the thought of inflicting harm to himself by Montparnasse’s hands only serves to sweeten the ache in his groin. Montparnasse notices the twitch of his cock.
He is pulled to Montparnasse deftly. “Let us see how you fare under pressure, Grantaire. Complete the poem, or I shall not grant you release this evening.”
When Montparnasse slips out of Grantaire’s rooms at the break of dawn like a thief on silent feet, Grantaire has been thoroughly tested on his ability to recite Epics and obscene poetry while being fucked. He is certain that he will not be able to sit for a little while, yet he is content to lie in bed, naked, with the sweat of two cooling on his skin, and the scent of Montparnasse on his sheets. Their relationship is curious, one which should not be examined in the light of day lest it falls apart. As rough as they are with each other, they are fragile when put together - gossamer twining around butterfly wings. The slightest tug in the wrong direction from either would cause them to unravel, or perhaps shatter. It is hard to decide which would be more painful.
From where Grantaire is lying, it is harder still to bring himself to regret their relationship.
End