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Grantaire used the red rope this time, instead of scarves, at Enjolras’s request, and it’s already started to chafe at Enjolras’s wrists. They’re bound high above his head, to the bed frame, and it’s a good sort of chafe—just this side of painful but not overly so, just enough to remind Enjolras that the rope is there, that he’s not in control here, and that he asked for this. There will be pretty pink marks where he’ll still be feeling the rope tomorrow, to remind him of it, hidden underneath the long sleeves of his blazer and when he rolls his sleeves up to start typing up a report in his office he’ll glance at them, get hard inside his trousers—

That’s tomorrow. Today, right now, the rope itches around his wrists and he’s already hard inside his pretty lace panties (red, to match the rope, and your pretty red lips, and that red flush that goes all the way down your chest whenever I have you like this, Grantaire told him). There’s the friction of the lace against his cock and nothing else, nothing more, and he needsmore, needs a hand or a mouth or Grantaire’s hip to rut against, but Grantaire is seated adamantly at the end of the bed, watching him with a smirk.

Only his wrists are bound—the rest of him is free to move and squirm, arch his back while his hips thrust into the air in an involuntary search for more. A minute ago Grantaire had traced a deft tongue over lace, over Enjolras’s cock, and now he’s sitting back to see the damage he’d wrought.

Enjolras pants, tries to roll his hips to the side so he can rut against the mattress—he needs to, needs something more against him than a thin piece of lace and the briefest touches of Grantaire’s tongue—but the rope is enough to stop him from being able to roll over and hump the bed to completion like a filthy teenager.

All he can do is lie there and squirm.

He hears a drawn out whine leave his throat, and knows that he’s about to start begging.

“Ah ah,” Grantaire says, and runs a hand up Enjolras’s stocking-covered calf. Enjolras presses his leg against the palm of Grantaire’s hand, eager for every small touch he can get. “No talking. Which was your stipulation, I believe.”

Enjolras tilts his face into his shoulder to bite at his own freckled skin there, to muffle another whine, to stop himself from begging god fucking please touch touch me please. He’s always vocal during sex, and even more so during a scene—that’s why he wanted to try something different, no talking, just to see if he could manage it.

The talking, the begging—they’re their own sort of release, a slight easing of tension and wantwhen he can vocalize what he’s craving—an easing of tension he’s not allowed now.

He digs his teeth harder into his shoulder as Grantaire drags blunt fingernails up his thigh and leans down to kiss the line where stocking meets skin and soft blond hair.

If his hands were free, he’d lock his fingers into Grantaire’s unruly curls, drag his face to his cock and press hard into his mouth, groaning Grantaire’s name.

Now, his hips shift upward again, seeking friction and finding none. He lets out a gasp of frustration that turns into a choked-off moan when Grantaire slides his fingers further up between his legs. Enjolras spreads his thighs eagerly, tries to push his hips down for more of Grantaire’s touch. He draws his knees up, feet flat—save for his curling toes—against the bed.

The position gives him more leverage—some leverage to push forward against Grantaire’s fingers when he strokes the strip of lace that covers the base of the bright red plug inside of him, and Enjolras gasps again when Grantaire pushes it purposefully with his fingers. His hips buck, and he starts to twist around again, desperate to turn his body so that he can get some sort of pressure against his cock.

It’s futile, just like before, which he would’ve realized if he had any room for rational thought left in his brain.

Grantaire grins widely at Enjolras and pushes on the base of the plug again, harder this time.

“Fuck fuck fuck. Please. Touch me, touch me, please. I—I need—I need—” Enjolras hears himself stammer, his voice pleading and shaking. His fists are clenched in fists above his head, and he feels sweat beginning to bead at his temples as he tosses his head back.

“Did I break you?” Grantaire asks conversationally. “I thought we said no talking.”

Enjolras screws his eyes shut and nods, gritting his teeth. As he tries to still the wriggling of his hips, he hears the springs in the mattress shifting, the end of the bed rising as Grantaire stands up to root around in the nightstand drawer.

Enjolras opens his eyes, turns his head to the side to watch.

It doesn’t take long for Grantaire to find what he’s looking for—a red ball gag with simple black straps. Just the sight of it has Enjolras lifting his head and opening his jaw obediently. This is what they had agreed upon, before starting—if Enjolras needed the gag to stop himself from talking, he’d get it.

He needs it now, and Grantaire is only doing his best to take care of him.

“Please—” he says again, and then the silicone ball is between his teeth, and Grantaire fastens the buckle behind his head. It’s a small one—meant to gag effectively, but not to cause his jaw any undue stress. Even so, the fullness in his mouth is its own sort of satisfying, and Enjolras can’t stop himself from groaning against it.

Grantaire saunters around the bed, climbs back up onto it. He crawls between Enjolras’s legs, although careful not to touch him. Enjolras draws his knees up higher and cants his hips, moaning loudly around the gag. He can afford to make as many sounds as he wants, now, with the gag in place, to let Grantaire how needy he is, how desperate.

“I know, I know,” Grantaire murmurs, sounding almost sympathetic, as he leans forward to pinch Enjolras’s nipple. “You’re a filthy slut who needs to come.”

Enjolras arches into Grantaire’s touch, nodding eagerly in agreement.

“Nonverbal safeword?”

Enjolras loosens his fists to extend his index fingers in their hands-tied-and-mouth-gagged agreed-upon safeword, and Grantaire nods. “Good.” He leans over Enjolras to place a playful kiss right in the middle of the ballgag, and pinches his other nipple. Behind the gag, the noise Enjolras sounds like a squeak.

“You’re fucking adorable,” Grantaire says, and does it again. He’s been carefully keeping enough space between them so that Enjolras cannot arch up and rub himself against Grantaire—and then suddenly he isn’t. His leg has settled in between Enjolras’s, pressed lightly against his groin.

“You’re my adorable little slut and I want to watch you come.”

Grantaire doesn’t move. Enjolras blinks. He thought he’d be getting fucked. Assumed it. Assumed he’d be getting Grantaire inside of him and Grantaire’s hand on his cock. He’d thought that’s what the plug was for—to prep him, fill him, to tease him for something better yet to come. Grantaire is hard inside his jeans, Enjolras can see, as he kneels between his legs.

But Grantaire only presses his knee more insistently against Enjolras’s cock.

“I promised you I’d make you come inside your pretty little panties,” Grantaire purrs. “You can come whenever you want.”

Enjolras wants to hold out for more—to beg for Grantaire’s cock inside of him, for Grantaire to fuck him until his sees stars, but the feeling of Grantaire’s knee against him is what he’s beenneeding this entire time, and he can’t help himself—he feels himself grinding on Grantaire’s leg, hands scrambling to find purchase against the headboard so he can move faster and harder.

The lace scratches perfectly against his cock, and Grantaire gaze on him is hot and avid and Grantaire’s hands on his nipples, thumbing them gently until he’s not—he’s twisting them until ithurts just like he knows Enjolras likes and Enjolras can’t stop rutting against Grantaire’s leg and it’s moving the plug inside of him just so

“Come for me, Enjolras. Slut. Come on.”

It’s the edge of desperation in Grantaire’s own voice that sends Enjolras over the edge—he’s coming in his panties just like Grantaire told him he would, wet and hot and he rides Grantaire’s knee through it, shaking and whining behind his gag even as his hips slow and stop, and he slumps down against the mattress, eyes half-closed and breathing heavily.

“Fuck. Shit. Fuck,” Grantaire exhales.

Enjolras watches him as he undoes his jeans quickly, hand moving fast on his own cock until he swears and sighs Enjolras’s name and he’s coming on Enjolras’s ruined wrecked pretty red underwear.

When he’s finished, Enjolras closes his eyes, tries to catch his breath through his ballgag. That’s the first thing to come off—Grantaire’s hands gently seeking out the buckle amidst Enjolras’s mass of hair, undoing it, and dropping it on the floor beside the bed.

Then the plug. His legs are left sprawled open, and Grantaire reaches carefully between them to draw the plug out slowly. Enjolras can’t bring himself to move but he moans loudly, becauseoverstimulation and it feels so good it almost hurts. But Grantaire knows that—he doesn’t tease or push the plug back in—not that that would be entirely unwelcome—just takes it out and sets it on the nightstand.

The rope is next. Enjolras lazily opens and closes his mouth to stretch his jaw while Grantaire unbinds his hands, rubs the feeling back into his wrists.

He feels Grantaire nuzzle his neck, press a kiss to his collarbone, and pluck at the waistband of his underwear.

“Hips up, Enjolras,” he says softly.

Enjolras wriggles his hips halfheartedly. “I want to leave them on for a bit,” he mumbles.

The feeling of Grantaire’s laughter against his skin is indescribable. “You’ll regret that decision when they get literally stuck to you in half an hour.”

He sighs as though he is exceedingly put out, but raises his hips so Grantaire can help him out of them. When they’re finished, Enjolras curls into him, feels Grantaire’s arms come up around him, and means to say something appreciative, like I enjoyed that or That was fucking mindblowing, because feedback is important

But he falls immediately asleep instead.