Author Note: Welcome to So Quite New a Thing, written for wittygirls on tumblr. É/E for the smut drabble exchange. NSFW. Credit to e.e. cummings for the title and the poem used in this drabble. :)

Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.

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So Quite New a Thing

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"I like my body when it is with your body," he whispers, right against the shell of her ear. She shivers against him, twisting slightly under his hands as they wander leisurely over her bare skin. "It is so quite new a thing."

"New how? We've been together fo—ohhh," she moans, drawing the last syllable out unintentionally as he cups her breasts, teasing her sensitive nipples.

He chuckles slightly as he drops a kiss to her shoulder. "Muscles better and nerves more," he says, as if she hadn't spoken at all, as if he was reciting from memory—oh. Oh, God, is he saying a love poem out loud? While they're in bed? Who even does that anymore?

Apparently Enjolras does, and God, it would be so corny and cheesy and awful if his voice wasn't so damn sexy. If he didn't make anything erotic just by breathing on it.

"I like your body," he whispers, drawing her back tight against his chest and running his palms down her legs. "I like what it does. I like its hows." He lifts her knees and spreads them wide, fingers dipping between them to touch her softly, his caresses as smooth and seductive as his words. She keens and writhes against him, but he holds her steady, his voice keeping her entranced even as his hands drive her closer and closer to the edge.

"I like to feel the spine of your body," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck. "And its bones." He moves one of his hands and curls it lovingly against her prominent rib cage, her bony elbows, her knobby knees, touching each spot reverently.

She's okay with the way she looks; she knows and accepts that she's just a tad too sharply thin to ever be considered traditionally beautiful—but Enjolras loves her, all of her, everything about her, even her skinny body, and right now she can feel tears gathering in her eyes at the way he's showing her just how much.

"And the trembling—firm—smoothness, which I will again." He presses a kiss to the soft spot below her ear. "And again." Another to her cheek. "And again." One to her temple. "Kiss," he whispers right against her mouth, and she closes her eyes and follows blindly after him, wanting more and more and more.

He pulls back though, and brings them both down so that they're lying on the bed. "I like kissing this and that of you," he says, pressing his lips to her collarbones, her breasts. "I like slowly stroking the shocking fuzz of your electric fur." He steals a hand down to the apex of her thighs, and this time it's she who parts them wordlessly, no need for further prompting.

"And what-is-it comes over parting flesh…" he says as he strokes her and strokes and strokes her, and God, please, she can't take much more of this.

She arches, whimpering, hands digging into his shoulders and his back, trying to pull him closer. "Please," she begs.

(She never begs for anyone but him.)

He smiles, that crooked, knowing little grin she loves and hates and loves, moving his fingers faster inside of her, eyes darkening as she moans louder.

"And eyes big love-crumbs," he says softly, leaning down and kissing them as they close, first the right, and then the left, lingering to feel them tremble under his lips. He pulls his fingers out and she wants to scream, but then he's moving over her, moving into her, and yes, oh yes, this is what she wants, this, always this, always him, words of passion and hands like fire and eyes burning with love for her, always, always, always.

They move together feverishly, hands and mouths and hearts hopelessly entwined, and soon his body goes rigid above her as he groans her name into her ear, the syllables of it like poetry still:

"Éponine."

She closes her eyes and comes, his name on her lips her answer.

They lie together afterwards, and he finishes the poem.

"And possibly I like the thrill," he says, kissing her deeply, murmuring the words lazily against her mouth. "Of under me you so quite new."

She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him back. "I love you, too," she says, and he smiles, and she knows her words are poetry enough for him.

Endnote: Thank you for reading. Please review. :)