This was a bad idea.
Enjolras doesn’t often make mistakes, but he’ll admit when he’s made one, and this? Was a mistake.
He is never making a bet with Grantaire again.
A week and a half ago, they’d gotten each other off in Grantaire’s room—hot, fevered, and fast. He could taste the beer on Grantaire’s breath, which was the only reason he’d made the snide remark later as they were cleaning themselves up.
“I bet you couldn’t go a week without drinking.”
He’d expected Grantaire to brush it off like he did all of Enjolras’ scornful comments. Instead Grantaire’s face had gone deadly serious, and after a moment’s silence he’d said, “Interesting...I’ll take that wager, but if I win, I propose a counterbet.”
Enjolras was too caught up in his own surprise to consider the consequences. “Name it.”
“If I remain sober for seven days, I bet that you can’t go three days without getting off.”
Enjolras let out a laugh, a low huff of breath. He’d gone without sex far longer than that before he and Grantaire had started this...thing. And even before that, masturbation was something he really only engaged in for the relief, a release of tension. Three days was nothing. “Easy. Done,” he’d said.
“And...” Grantaire had continued to list his other stipulation.
Enjolras had gone still, and he ignored the pooling of heat in his gut at hearing Grantaire’s additional term. He only wanted to see Enjolras humiliated, that must be his reasoning behind this. Or, he wanted Enjolras to feel humiliated. It didn’t matter, of course, because Grantaire would never be able to hold to his part of the bet. And if he did...well, Enjolras could make some sacrifices of dignity in the name of Grantaire’s sobriety.
“I’ll agree to your terms,” Enjolras had said, “on the condition that you allow yourself to be tested at any point during the week. I can get Joly to check your blood-alcohol concentration.”
Grantaire smiled. “By all means, I’ll happily agree. I wouldn’t want you to think I cheated when I win.”
He should have known.
Enjolras lets out a frustrated groan. He’s sitting in the back of the class, far from his normal front-row seat, but he can’t sit there now, not when his face is colored by a flush and he feels like any moment people will know exactly what he’s thinking.
The first two days had been fine. He’d been caught up in writing papers, so he and Grantaire wouldn’t have had time to have sex anyway, even if Enjolras wasn’t honorably holding to his side of the bet. Grantaire had surprised them all, allowing the random tests by Joly, and there hadn’t been a time throughout the week when one of their friends hadn’t been able to vouch for him. Under other circumstances, Enjolras would be thrilled by that, and the fact that Grantaire has remained sober even in the days since he finished his side of the bet, except—
Except Enjolras is sitting in his chair in class and wishing he could curse Grantaire aloud. Underwear—that had been the final condition. Red underwear with lace and some kind of microfiber that feels like silk only it’s not it doesn’t matter he’s not thinking about it but it just feels so good. He’s trying not to move, but then his leg cramps and he has to shift, and the movement makes the soft material drag over his cock that he is valiantly trying to will into submission. He takes slow breaths through his mouth. It wouldn’t be so much of a problem if everything wasn’t so sensitive, but now three days without sex or jerking off suddenly feels like way too long.
His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he nearly jumps. He fumbles it out, seeing a text from Grantaire lighting the screen.
how are you holding up? -R
Enjolras glares at the screen. I’m well, in spite of your juvenile interest in my ejaculatory habits, he texts back. He will not give Grantaire the satisfaction of seeing him in a state of discomposure.
He attempts to focus on note-taking, but a minute later his phone buzzes again. It’s a picture of Grantaire: his face and the slope of his bare shoulder. Clearly self-taken. The phone vibrates again as he’s holding it. This picture is of a naked torso.
Enjolras pockets the phone, scribbling notes aggressively in his attempt to think of anything else but shirtless Grantaire texting him pictures during class. Oh god, Grantaire is probably getting himself off right now, just because he knows Enjolras can’t. His cock twitches against the silky material, and even if he wanted to say fuck everything about the stupid bet, he can’t because he’s in class.
And Grantaire would know. Somehow, he’d know.
When Enjolras’ phone buzzes again, he doesn’t look at it immediately. He’s still trying to calm the singing in his nerves at the phone’s vibration. When he does look at the message, and the picture accompanying it, he almost swallows his tongue. The red underwear is suddenly way too restrictive.
After class he goes straight to Grantaire’s room, consequences be damned. The door is unlocked, but no sooner is he inside when Grantaire is on him, shutting the door behind him and twisting the bolt while he kisses Enjolras for all he’s worth. And that would be great, except Enjolras has been inappropriately turn on for hours now, only made worse by Grantaire’s texts, and holy shit Grantaire really wasn’t bluffing with that last picture he sent.
Grantaire pulls back from the kiss, a wicked glint in his eye. His hair is wild, his shoulders and torso bare, and as Enjolras’ gaze travels lower he has to sag back against the door for support. Black lace stretches obscenely over Grantaire’s cock, matching the discomfort Enjolras feels. Never one to be outdone, Grantaire has completed the ensemble with a garter belt and black stockings.
Enjolras never figured this for a kink he might have, but he can’t take his eyes off the way the black contrasts sharply with the skin of Grantaire’s hips, the way the stockings cling to the muscles of his thighs, and suddenly nothing sounds more appealing than the idea of peeling those delicate layers off. “Why—”
“Because I took pity on your poor circumstances. Suffering is more fun when there is someone with whom to share it.”
Grantaire nips at his lip as he says this, hands working deftly to pull at his clothes. Enjolras is too turned on to offer much resistance, and he lifts his arms so that his shirt can be removed. He kicks his shoes off, the most help he can offer because now Grantaire has agile fingers working his jeans open, and is sinking to a crouch. Grantaire suddenly halts his movements, letting out a breath that sounds almost reverent.
“You actually wore them,” he says, glancing up. His awed expression, the fan of dark curls framing his face and his parted lips serve to make all higher brain function near impossible, and Enjolras struggles a moment to find a response that isn’t grabbing Grantaire’s face and burying it in his crotch.
“Of course I did. I agreed to the bet.”
Grantaire rises then, his lips capturing Enjolras’ in a kiss that is hot and hungry and just this side of painful. Enjolras gasps into it, even as Grantaire’s hands remain busy pushing down the denim, skating the pads of his fingers across lace-covered buttocks. Enjolras has barely had a chance to recover from that before Grantaire is sliding down again, kissing and nipping and sucking until his mouth hovers over red lace.
Enjolras lets out a frustrated noise—the jeans are bunched at his knees, and he wants to be out of them but he doesn’t want to move and interrupt whatever Grantaire is going to do next. He lets his palms rest flat against the cool door, which is the only thing that keeps his legs from buckling as Grantaire leans in and just breathes.
Grantaire smirks, leans in again and drags the flat of his tongue against the lace-covered line of his erection. Enjolras’ head hits the back of the door with a low thunk. And then Grantaire just goes for it, mouthing the length of him and tonguing the damp spot left by precome and wrapping lips over the head of his cock through the fabric and sucking. Enjolras groans. Another minute of this and he’s going to come, he can’t even be sorry about it except—
Except then Grantaire is gripping his hips hard enough to bruise, whirling him around and Enjolras is pressed into the door, hands finding purchase again as his cheek slides against the flat surface. Enjolras barely has time to recover before he can feel Grantaire leaning in again, hands gripping his ass, fingers tracing the lacy edge of fabric. Enjolras bites his lip against a cry that threatens to escape as Grantaire’s lips and tongue perform the same action against the crease of his ass. He can feel the fabric going damp against his sensitive nerves, and he tries to spread his legs to provide better access for Grantaire, but his legs are hobbled by his tangled jeans.
Then Grantaire is curling his fingers over the elastic at his waist, and dragging down the not-silk-lace-microfiber-doesn’tmatter, because his tongue is back and there’s nothing in between and Enjolras does cry out then, loud and ragged and desperate. He spares the slightest moment to feel bad for anyone in the hallway outside, but then that thought is gone too as Grantaire licks him again, tongue curling against that part of him, dipping in.
Enjolras is tense, drawn taut like the strings of a violin and Grantaire is the musician who knows exactly how to make him sing. And he does. Enjolras keens until the surface of the door beneath his face and palms are slick with sweat, and he’s scrabbling for purchase and his hips are twitching back towards Grantaire’s talented, sinful tongue.
He’s been on-edge all day, ever since he felt the first sensuous drag of soft fabric and lace, and this is too much, he’s so close, he’s—
Grantaire pulls back, and Enjolras lets out a whine of frustration. A moment later his legs buckle, and Grantaire is there, supporting him and manhandling over to the bed until Enjolras is on his back, staring up at the cheap dorm ceilings. Grantaire pulls off the tangled jeans. The ruin of underwear goes next, and Enjolras is naked, breathing deeply and feeling fucked-out just from Grantaire’s mouth and tongue.
Grantaire, who is still wearing lacy black underwear and stockings but seems utterly unashamed about that fact. “How long—?” Enjolras croaks out, his voice hoarse, but he gestures at the stockings, hoping his meaning is apparent.
Grantaire grins. “How long have I been wearing them? All day, same as you.”
Enjolras’ breath hitches at the thought of Grantaire pulling on the stockings that morning, hooking them to the garter belt. Then his breath hitches again as Grantaire pushes his legs apart into a wanton sprawl.
“Though sometimes,” Grantaire says, voice pitched in a low purr, “Other days, I like to put them on...wear them under my clothes, just for the heightened sensitivity.”
Grantaire’s fingers are tracing along the crease of his ass. They’re slick with lube, and without further preamble one breeches him. Enjolras gasps, hips twitching upwards, as Grantaire begins to slowly thrust that finger.
“On some days when I don’t have class, I’ll wear just that around the room. You usually have class,” Grantaire says matter-of-factly, his tone a contrast to the languid thrusting finger that has Enjolras undone. “Since you take no fewer than eighteen credits every semester. But me, I get days off, I’ll wear nothing but lingerie—and touch myself through the lace.”
Another finger, this one twisting deeper along with the first. Enjolras fists his hands in the bedspread. He’s on a precipice, so near the edge, but he’s holding on to every word Grantaire utters as well as focused on the slick drag of fingers deep within him.
“I touch myself, and I think of you, and I get off every time without even needing to lay a hand on my cock directly. Just that friction is enough.”
Grantaire’s fingers thrust, working him open relentlessly. They brush against that place within him that makes pleasure spark, and light and colors sharper to his senses. Enjolras writhes, careening hopelessly towards completion. He reaches down towards his cock.
Grantaire’s fingers go still, his free hand moving to swat Enjolras’ away. Then he grips Enjolras himself, and finally contact, contact and pressure and—Enjolras hisses—too much pressure. Grantaire grips him tight, staving off his orgasm as his fingers inside Enjolras renew their ministrations.
“Uh-uh,” Grantaire says, “We had a bet, remember? You don’t get to come for three days. And day three isn’t over yet.”
Enjolras’ eyes fly open as he levels a glare at Grantaire. Midnight is hours away. “I hate you so much,” he groans out. A third finger plies him, and Enjolras feels so open in spite of his frustrations.
Grantaire leans lower, breath ghosting over his cock, but not close enough for contact. Grantaire is looking at him, dark-pupiled gaze through heavy lids and eyelashes. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to fingerfuck you until you’re begging for it, or until you can’t string words together. I haven’t decided yet. Then I’m going to fuck you senseless. And you aren’t going to come, not until much later.”
Grantaire’s grin is savage as he sits back. “Fuck me? I’d say it’s the other way around, wouldn’t you?”
Something sparks in Enjolras. Not anger, per se, but there’s a challenge in Grantaire’s words that he can’t help but answer to. He summons some unknown reserve of strength, bucking his hips and drawing himself up. Grantaire is strong, all lean muscle, but Enjolras is stronger when the need requires it. More than that, Grantaire is caught off-guard, and very soon Enjolras has him pinned to the bed, breathless and wide-eyed as he stares up.
“Would I?” Enjolras poses, arching an eyebrow.
He slides down Grantaire’s body, until black lace fills his field of vision. He would take his time here, but he’s past the point of desperation and he doesn’t want to give Grantaire the opportunity to gain back the upper hand. He drags garter belt and underwear down, uncaring that they’re tangled around Grantaire’s thighs. Grantaire’s cock is hard and leaking, and Enjolras finds the condom Grantaire had set aside. Another moment, two, and Grantaire is ready and Enjolras is poised again above him.
Grantaire, still taken aback by the sudden changing of plans, lets out a moan as Enjolras sinks down on him. Enjolras breathes deep, relaxing, opening himself up to take all of Grantaire’s cock, until he is fully seated. He can feel the stretch in spite of all the preparation, and he allows himself a moment to adjust as he rocks an infinitesimal amount. Grantaire’s breath hitches, eyes gone hazy with lust.
Then Enjolras is moving, his thigh muscles straining as he works himself up and down, setting a relentless pace. He’s fucking Grantaire, fucking himself on Grantaire, and there’s no question of control here. Grantaire has gone boneless against the mattress, clutching ineffectually at the bedspread and gone mindless with pleasure, and it’s a fine turning of tables. There’s just one thing...
Enjolras leans down, the angle placing friction against his cock and he wants to—but he can’t yet. “What happens if I lose the bet?”
Grantaire’s eyes fly open, and he makes a valiant attempt to focus. “Wha—?”
“What happens...if I lose the bet?” Enjolras punctuates this with another roll of his hips. He can tell Grantaire is close, and he retaliates by clenching his muscles, constricting him and staving off his orgasm just as Grantaire had done to him.
Grantaire lets out a stream of curses, his hands going to grip at Enjolras’ thighs in an attempt to get him moving again, but Enjolras is undeterred.
“I...ah—I suppose there would have to be some sort of payment, or—or punishment.”
“Hmm...” Enjolras considers, even as his cock twitches, leaking fluid against Grantaire’s belly. “I could agree to that. Did you have something in mind?”
Grantaire lets out a low whimper, plaintive and desperate.Then he goes suddenly still, and looks up with an expression bordering on insecure. “Go on a date with me?”
That brings Enjolras’ mind up short, and he looks at Grantaire with a bemused expression. “That doesn’t sound like punishment.”
Grantaire grits his teeth through an indrawn breath. “Fuck, I’ll come up with something, then. But please, will you?”
There’s something intensely vulnerable about Grantaire at this moment, and Enjolras is touched by it. He bows his body, curling down so he can press a kiss to Grantaire’s brow. “Yes. Not as payment...but because you asked me. Now—” he sighs against Grantaire’s forehead “—tell me I can come?”
Grantaire groans as Enjolras sits up again. “Yes. Come for me, Enjolras. Come on, I want to feel you—”
His words are cut off by Enjolras moving again, riding him with a single-minded focus until Grantaire spends himself, crying out as his cock pulses. Enjolras waits until Grantaire has been reduced to a trembling wreck, and then he fists his own cock, finally giving himself over to pleasure that has been denied him for days, as he paints Grantaire’s chest with his own release.
His thighs are burning from exertion, and he shifts, collapsing on the bed beside Grantaire, chest heaving as he stares up at the ceiling. They both lay like that, speech lost to them. It would be a courtesy to clean Grantaire up after he countermanded the original terms of the bet, but Enjolras can’t seem to muster the energy for that. With a low chuckle, Grantaire finally reaches for the tissues near his bed and disposes the condom.
“So...how does next Friday sound?”
Enjolras has to repeat the words in his head until they form meaning. “For the date, or the punishment?”
Grantaire smiles, a hint of shyness to it. “The date.”
Enjolras sits up on his elbows. “I could do that.”
The smile Grantaire flashes is wide this time, with none of the earlier reserve. “Good. As for the punishment...I may wait a bit before redeeming that.”
Grantaire leans over him now, fingertips touching the insides of his thighs. Enjolras can still feel a low-level hum of arousal, although there’s no way he’s getting it up again this soon. His breath hitches as Grantaire’s fingers slide down, briefly dipping inside him again where he feels sore in the best possible way. When Enjolras meets Grantaire’s eyes again, the blue staring back at him has a veneer of innocence.
“How do you feel about being tied up?”