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Stripped Bare (For The Audience)

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Enjolras should’ve said no when Courfeyrac asked if he could plan his twenty-third birthday party. He should’ve known better. He knew better, so why in the name of Jehovah and all his witnesses did he say yes?

The ridiculously hot policeman that had walked through the door just a few seconds earlier started prowling the floor. Enjolras knew what this was. There was no way a policeman would walk into a Chippendale in full uniform—wearing even his sunglasses. Oh, no. Enjolras fully well knew what this was and where this was going, and Courfeyrac was not going to wake up the next day. He would make absolutely sure of that.

The policeman spoke through his walkie-talkie and, somehow, his words were heard all over the club.

“Officers, we’re having a 969 in here. It appears that a birthday boy is presenting disorderly conduct.”

“You’re dead. You’re so, so very dead, and I’m going to murder you,” he seethed, looking at Courfeyrac with passionate hatred. The latter didn’t look too worried, however. He was grinning at him. The policeman surveyed the room and stopped moving as soon as he saw their loud, excited group.

“Hey! Angel! You in the red jacket!” he called loudly. Enjolras shook his head vigorously. The policeman swaggered to their table, moving his hips in a way that made all the women stare and whoop at. Enjolras started to look more and more scared the closer that he got. He also noticed that the guy seemed awfully familiar, but he couldn’t quite tell because of the big Ray-Bans and police hat.

The guy picked up his walkie-talkie again and spoke into it, so everyone could hear. “How old are you?” he placed the walkie-talkie right in front of Enjolras’s mouth. He had no choice but to answer.

“I, um, I—I’m twenty—um, twenty-three.”

The policeman tutted and shook his head. “Well, you’re all grown up now. No chance of you going to juvie. You’re getting the full adult treatment.” Everyone in the club cheered loudly, but no one louder than his group of friends. Even Combeferre, the damn traitor, was laughing joyously. He looked at his best friend, and that was his big mistake. The policeman used his distraction to pull him to his feet and push him up the stairs and to the middle of the platform.

Enjolras was now past the point of being furious. He wasn’t even angry anymore. He was completely out of his depth, lost under the pressure of the stage lights. He imagined his face wasn’t particularly attractive right now. He looked around and saw the policeman drag a cushioned wood chair with no armrests to the center of the stage, facing to the side, before speaking to his walkie-talkie once more:

“No reinforcements needed. Officer Thicke has got it all under control.” He tucked his radio on his belt with finality, but drew out his baton slowly, making sure Enjolras saw it.

Looking at Enjolras, he pointed to the chair. Enjolras numbly walked to it and made to sit down, but Officer Thicke took him by the arm to face the back of the chair, instead. He draped himself all over his back as his hands slid down Enjolras’s clothed arms to wrap around his hands, placing them on the top of the back of the chair. The heat of the other man’s body disappeared after that. He wanted to turn around, but then he felt something hitting his calves softly. He looked down and saw that the baton was urging him to part his legs. He looked up with an incredulous expression at where he presumed his friends were, but he couldn’t see below the stage with the bright lights.

The baton started trailing up his left calf and he quickly spread his legs, not wanting to incite the stripper to go further up… but what happened next was much worse. A broad palm placed itself upon his back and pushed down, so he was effectively braced on the chair, legs spread, face down, ass up in full display. He blushed furiously and swore to avenge his dignity by brutally murdering all his friends. Except Grantaire, whose work shift would be over in half an hour, and as such had no hand in this embarrassing debasement.

And then the officer walked around the chair, took off his hat and glasses, tossed them to the floor, and grinned. Of course. Of course.

Let him rephrase: He was going to kill each and every one of his friends, slowly and painfully, using blunt McDonald’s butter knives. But Grantaire didn’t know why this was especially cruel of their friends’ (and he most definitely didn’t have to know), so perhaps he would still be spared.

“I’m going to kill them,” said he out loud. Grantaire climbed on the chair and kneeled so Enjolras was facing his chest. He lifted the blond’s chin with his index finger and spoke into the very, very, very few centimeters of space between their lips.

“Just go along with it, yeah? It’ll be better that way.” He gave Enjolras no time to reply (he couldn’t, anyway. Their closeness had completely fogged up his mind) before he spoke again, “Happy birthday, Apollo.”

Grantaire abandoned his seat immediately after that and walked around the chair a few times, inspecting Enjolras closely. Enjolras, for his part, now that he knew that it was Grantaire swaggering around, couldn’t help but gaze at his behind every couple of seconds. It was a flattering uniform and, if he wasn’t making stuff up in his mind, it was definitely made for the audience to focus on his crotch. When Grantaire didn’t appear in his range of vision after a few seconds of waiting, he looked over his shoulder only to see the man himself kneeling just behind him. He felt hands crawling up his calves slowly. He made a surprised exclamation and tried to close his legs, but Grantaire made sure they stayed wide open for him; he shook his head in reprimand, and spanked Enjolras playfully.

“Oh, god,” Enjolras whimpered in pure dread. He clenched his eyes shut and focused on breathing steadily. His concentration was broken when the music changed as abruptly as the lighting. He opened his eyes once more in time for Grantaire to pull him up, position the chair so that it faced the crowd, and guide him to it. He sat down obediently.

He was left to his own devices and could do nothing but watch as Grantaire walked closer to the audience and began rolling his hips to the music and grinding down on the air, his hands traveling slowly down his body and, whoa, fondling his crotch. Enjolras looked away, blushing once more, though he continued watching out of the corner of his eye. He gave up his pretense when Grantaire completely lay down on the floor, sunny side up, and started grinding his hips in a way that looked completely delicious. Enjolras was pretty sure he was drooling. The room was definitely getting hotter, in any case, so he took off his jacket and gingerly placed it on the back of the chair. For some reason, this earned him cheers from the audience.

Grantaire finally jumped up from the floor and sauntered over to Enjolras, who watched attentively, not wanting to be taken by surprise. He was taken by surprise, anyway.

Once Grantaire was standing directly in front of him, not one step away from the chair, he turned back toward the audience and started taking small steps backwards, towards the chair, swaying his hips every time, until Enjolras ended up with a lapful of Grantaire in tight clothing. Enjolras, unable to get away, drew his hands as far from Grantaire as he could, but the man simply took them in his own and placed them on his chest. He began rolling his entire body and guiding Enjolras’s hands lower and lower, until he could feel the belt. Enjolras was dismayed. That was definitely Grantaire grinding his butt on his crotch, and he was doing it because their friends made him do it.

“Please tell me this will be over soon,” he said loud enough for Grantaire to hear. The man placed his hands on the inside of his thighs and started rolling his hips again, always to the rhythm of the song. Enjolras tried to go to another place; another mental space that would let him escape from this nightmare. Grantaire then stood up and gave his back to the audience, posing in a way that would show off his ass. As he took off his official-looking jacket (still with his back to the audience) he spoke to Enjolras:

“Apollo, I haven’t even started.”

“What.”

Grantaire, now wearing only a tight, elaborate vest, sat down on Enjolras’s lap again, but this time facing him. He flashed him a charming smile just before he started grinding again, but this time around, their crotches were rubbing together. He was doing the same delicious-looking movements he was doing on the floor, and Enjolras was feeling it.

Oh, god,” he choked out, flushed beet red, and looked anywhere but at the man atop him. “Oh, my god. Oh, god, this is not happening.”

Grantaire took his hands once more and placed them behind himself, on his ass. He squeezed at the same time as he grinded particularly hard. Enjolras whimpered and tried in vain to shake Grantaire off his lap, so he wouldn’t feel the way his body was reacting—completely uncalled for, by the way. Grantaire made him squeeze his butt once more, and shook his hips quickly. Enjolras clenched the muscles of his legs and determinedly looked away. There was no way Grantaire couldn’t feel his embarrassing, unbidden half-hard-on.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he heard Grantaire say. “It’s a completely natural reaction to stimuli and nerves.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Grantaire grinded down pointedly. Enjolras swallowed.

“Just focus on the audience. It’s just a show. Play along, and you’ll be fine. You don’t have to do much; the ladies are already eating us up.”

“This is terrible.”

“Relax, or it’ll get worse. I still have to get naked for you.”

“You what?

“I’ll dance on your lap while naked, so you better chill.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. I’m gonna murder them—” But Grantaire was already taking off his vest, much to the audience’s pleasure and Enjolras’s dismay. He got off Enjolras’s lap and rolled his hips to the music as he lifted his black muscle shirt inch by painful, little inch. He then proceeded to rub his hands all over himself, still dancing, and presenting his leather-clad ass very spectacularly to the person in the chair.

Enjolras, in his effort to find something to focus on other than Grantaire’s body, heard someone shout his name. He turned in the direction of the voice and saw Courfeyrac beckoning him forward. He glared coldly at him and turned away.

“Toss me your jacket, you twit!” Courfeyrac shouted at him. After a few seconds of ignoring him, Enjolras stood up, picked up his jacket from the back of the chair, and walked to the edge of the platform. He had just thrown it to Courfeyrac when a pair of hands turned him around and fingers slipped into his belt loops, pulling him to the center of the stage once more. Grantaire turned around and pushed himself back against Enjolras’s chest, hooking an arm over his head. His other hand efficiently opened a black bottle and poured a generous amount of its contents on his chest. The audience whooped loudly, and Grantaire, with a gracious smile, took Enjolras’s hands, placed them on his hard pecs, and rubbed around a little bit, making Enjolras whimper inwardly. Grantaire patted his hands before letting them go.

It’s all only a show, he told himself, before slowly moving his hands and spreading the oily substance around, making sure his movements were visibly clinical and not at all indulgent, though he did spend a few more seconds than necessary spreading the oil over his abs. Grantaire must’ve done something without him noticing, because the audience went wild. He was just about to ask the man what he’d done when a hand wrapped around his left wrist and ran it up and down the length of Grantaire’s torso intricately, and more than a few times. His hand was next guided over his belt and toward his center; he rubbed it against his groin—which, Enjolras noted, was enlarged with a protective cup—and further down. His fingers were gently wrapped around some sort of shaft, and guided to move up and down—oh. Oh.

“Oh, my god.”

“You’re stroking my baton with oil in your hand.”

“Oh, my god.” He continued with the motions, red on the face (it’s only a show), as Grantaire swayed his body against his. The audience was wild. Enjolras swore he could hear Bahorel screaming somewhere below them.

Grantaire tucked the baton back into its place in his holster, turned around, and walked Enjolras back towards the chair again. Their eyes were locked on each other’s as Grantaire unbuckled his belt and tossed the holster with his fake gun and baton next to his jacket, vest, and muscle shirt. He smiled at Enjolras while playing with his belt.

“Ready for the next part?”

“Fuck no.”

“Please don’t stand up again, unless you want something even more embarrassing to happen,” he said as he bent over to slowly take off his shoes, presenting his ass to the audience in the meantime.

“You mean more embarrassing than giving your baton a handjob?”

“There’s much worse I can come up with. Don’t risk it.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Are you playing along yet?”

“There’s not much else I can do, is there?”

Grantaire rolled his hips for the audience’s benefit. “That’s the spirit.”

Enjolras eyed Grantaire’s legs curiously. “Are you wearing underwear?”

“Don’t worry; I’ll take it off.”

Enjolras flushed. “That’s not what I—” Grantaire interrupted him by shoving the soft leather end of his belt between his teeth. He positioned the end with the buckle so that it went under his crotch. “No!” Enjolras mumbled around the belt, alarmed. Grantaire slowly started puling on his end of the belt, and Enjolras’s head went along with it, until his face was literally up against the front of Grantaire’s pants. The audience cheered as Grantaire snapped his hips forward rhythmically, right into Enjolras’s face.

Thankfully, this particular ordeal was over soon enough. Grantaire put some space between them and requested Enjolras let go of the belt, which he gratefully did; he tossed his belt to the pile with the rest of his stuff, walked to the very edge of the platform, and started beckoning people forward. Nobody went for a few seconds, but then a small, chubby brunette walked up to him. Grantaire pointed out the stairs for her, and she practically ran up to the stage.

Enjolras, from his place in the chair, observed as Grantaire took her hands with the same familiarity as they had done with his, and placed them on the button of his pants. The girl undid it and lowered the zipper quickly, too shy to do it with flair. Grantaire was having none of it, though, and placed her hands on his belt loops. The girl pulled down as Grantaire vigorously shook his hips. The crowd went absolutely wild, but Enjolras’s mouth dried up. Grantaire was wearing a black Speedo-type thong, and his legs were absolutely spectacular: thick, muscular and shapely. Definitely something he’d like to have around him. He scolded himself in shame as soon as the thought appeared in his mind.

Grantaire stepped out of his pants, now on the floor, and kissed the girl’s cheeks in gratitude, inviting her to touch his chest freely for a few seconds. She did so, red in the face and completely into it, before walking back down the stairs and to her table. Grantaire strutted around the stage for a minute, showing off his practically naked, glorious body, running his hands down his shiny, oily torso, swaying his hips to the music and rolling his shoulders back.

He looked back at Enjolras for a fraction of a second before pulling on the right side of the band of his thong with just one finger, and pulling it down teasingly. The audience saw nothing; it was merely for show. Enjolras, however, got a full view of his naked butt as his thong rode down on his backside. The blond furiously flushed and did his darned best to not look.

After a few more seconds of flaunting his endowments to the beat of the bass, he walked back over to the chair. He didn’t immediately pay attention to Enjolras, though. Instead, he bent down to his stuff and picked something up. He let Enjolras see it was whipped cream before drawing a line with it going from his bellybutton to the very top of his thong—which wasn’t saying much, seeing as the thong literally covered his dick and balls and nothing more. He accepted the audience’s catcalls graciously, even bowing a little, before finally turning to Enjolras. He stood directly to the side of the chair, so that the audience could see what happened next.

Enjolras looked at the trail of whipped cream on the enticing skin, up at Grantaire’s encouraging face, to the audience, to the front of the stripper’s thong, and back up again (it’s all for show), before leaning in and dipping his tongue into Grantaire’s bellybutton. He started dragging his tongue down, lapping up all the sweet foam. The audience was raucous and eating it up like honey. Emboldened by this level of support, Enjolras deliberately looked up and made eye contact, and dipped his tongue just below the elastic of Grantaire’s thong. He distantly noticed the shrill screams and loud whoops coming from a few members of the audience. Grantaire gave him a surprised little smile, as if impressed. He offered Enjolras the can of whipped cream. Enjolras, fully on board with the show now, motioned to himself in question in faux surprise, for the audience’s benefit. Grantaire nodded slowly before offering him the can once more. Enjolras took it this time. He thought quickly where he wanted to draw his line and the blush went down his neck. Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

Enjolras pulled Grantaire’s left leg up and made him rest his foot on the chair; this way, the audience would be able to see exactly where he’d draw the line. He shook the can vigorously before drawing a line beginning on his inner thigh, passing through the very corner between leg and pelvis, and ending directly over the tented part of his thong. He made sure to get a lot of whipped cream there. When he was satisfied, he looked up innocently and handed the can back to Grantaire, who was looking at him wide-eyed.

“Anything for the audience,” said he casually (though still very much blushing) before he leaned down and tongued his way up Grantaire’s inner thigh, licking extensively at the corner between his leg and crotch, and mouthing wetly over the cup. Feeling extremely pleased with himself, he looked up at Grantaire smugly, only to get surprised by the man’s flushed neck and cheeks. The audience didn’t seem to notice anything out of the norm, or if they did, they certainly were enjoying it.

Grantaire, after another couple of seconds of staring, lowered his leg and motioned the audience to clap at Enjolras. He then walked to stand directly before the blond, his back to the audience, and spread open the blond’s legs sinuously. Enjolras reacted in many different ways to this, but decided to keep going with it, so he simply smiled cheekily at Grantaire. Grantaire parted his own legs, and slithered atop Enjolras once more. He rubbed his crotch against Enjolras’s thighs. The smooth, circular motions and the feeling of Grantaire’s hard crotch—despite knowing it was the protective cup—so close to his, were beginning to drive Enjolras crazy. His hands were clenching sporadically where they sat obediently flat on the chair. Grantaire noticed this, leaned to the side to pick up another bottle from the floor, asked for Enjolras’s hands, and squirted a very liberal amount of oil on both open palms.

“Oil,” he explained unnecessarily, before hauling himself up so he was kneeling, bracketing Enjolras’s legs. He took Enjolras’s hands and placed them on his ass, rubbing them around to spread the oil. Enjolras, flabbergasted, froze for a few seconds. He looked up at Grantaire, who looked at him expectantly and wiggled his butt. He grinned. Enjolras decided right there and then that, fuck it, carpe diem, fuck it, and proceeded to spread the oil all over Grantaire’s backside, thighs, and back. He would make the most of this, dammit. Grantaire, for his part, resumed grinding to the beat as soon as Enjolras began his ministrations. As soon as the audience seemed to die down a bit, Grantaire sat down properly on Enjolras’s lap, hooked his calves around the legs of the chair, and leaned all the way back. The audience erupted in amazement.

Enjolras seemed slightly stunned with this move, but soon enough he got the message and started rubbing the leftover oil over Grantaire’s abs—which, Enjolras definitely noticed, looked simply fantastic from his angle. As Enjolras rubbed away, Grantaire somehow, somehow, managed to grind against him. Enjolras was helpless. The audience couldn’t get enough of it.

“How are you even doing that?!” Enjolras gaped. Grantaire laughed, but didn’t answer, opting instead for rolling his torso even more beautifully for a few more seconds. Then, he pushed himself up and draped himself all over Enjolras, rubbing them together. Enjolras didn’t really mind.

“Ready for the last part?”

“Whatever.”

“Please pretend it’s the biggest you’ve ever seen,” he said, making Enjolras laugh and blush furiously. Grantaire got up and walked somewhere behind the chair. When he was in Enjolras’s line of vision again, he was holding the French flag in his hand.

“You’re not serious.”

“Don’t lie. You think it’s hot,” Grantaire winked and Enjolras buried his face in his hands. Grantaire walked to the edge of the platform and beckoned the audience to cheer for Enjolras’s final task. The audience did. Enjolras had never heard his name called by a crowd. This whole experience was bizarre to the extreme. Grantaire finally turned around and strutted back to him. He circled the chair two times, grazing his fingers on Enjolras’s neck and face; even pulling a strand of his hair at one point. Enjolras was being driven into shameful, mad arousal. He looked at Grantaire expectantly, and the man simply sat down on top of him. He legitimately began gyrating on Enjolras’s crotch, and again, a man can only fight so much. Enjolras leaned into it. Sue him. Grantaire’s hand squeezed his thigh soon after. He didn’t know what that meant.

Grantaire made a show of showing off the flag for a little bit and then draped it around his midriff, holding it in place with his left hand. He tilted his head back to rest his head against Enjolras’s neck. He took Enjolras’s hand with his own free hand and, indulgently, made it travel from his neck, down his pecs, down his ripped abdomen, and—Enjolras finally figured out where this was going—under the flag. Enjolras didn’t actually touch Grantaire’s cock, but it certainly looked that way to the public. Grantaire used Enjolras's hand, still under the flag, to undo a button. Enjolras blanched and realized what that meant just as Grantaire pulled the cloth to which the button was attached to, and raised their joint hands so the audience could see. They were holding Grantaire's thong. Grantaire was naked.

“Oh, my god,” Enjolras intoned. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. What is going on.”

“Don’t worry,” smirked Grantaire. He tossed the thong onto his pile, took Enjolras’s hand again, and led it down his body one more time, languorously. Enjolras dipped his hand below the flag once more. The audience roared just as loudly as the first time. “You don’t have to touch unless you want to.”

“Unless I want to? What makes you say that?”

Grantaire ignored Enjolras’s slightly panicked tone. “Oh, nothing. Just your dick.” He circled his hips to prove his point. Enjolras wished for the ground to swallow him. “Okay, last item in the list.”

“This can’t possibly be a normal-length routine,” bemoaned Enjolras. Grantaire laughed.

“Nope. Just for you.”

Before Enjolras could even process his words, Grantaire stood up and wrapped the flag around his hips, tying it at the front. He then turned to Enjolras once more and told him to place his hands on his hips. Enjolras humored him.

“Are you enjoying your birthday present, O Righteous Leader?” asked Grantaire with a wide smile.

“It’s extremely embarrassing and I’m going to kill them.”

“But are you having fun?”

Yes. Sure. I am. If I just play along and don’t think about it, sure,” admitted Enjolras with a deep blush.

“Good, because I’m about to ruin it for you. You’re gonna see my dick.”

What? Really? No. Please, no.” Enjolras pleaded, just in time for Grantaire to untie the flag at the front and use it to cover the back, so the audience couldn’t see. “Oh, my god!” shouted Enjolras, clenching his eyes shut and looking away. Grantaire laughed just as loudly and danced for Enjolras a little bit, even though the blond was redder than a tomato and most definitely not looking. The audience was both cheering and laughing at Enjolras’s reaction.

Grantaire looked over his shoulder at the audience conspiratorially before turning back to Enjolras and speaking in the most earnest voice he could muster.

“I’m covered again.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” So Enjolras peeked through his fingers and screeched at what he saw. He drew his legs up the chair and hugged them, burying his head on his knees. Grantaire was laughing again and this time did wrap the flag around his waist securely. He turned to the audience and clapped; the audience followed him and clapped with enthusiasm. The Amis were cheering like crazy from their table.

“I’m covered, Apollo.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“I am.”

“No.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, faced the audience, and motioned at Enjolras, who was still curled into a ball on the chair. The audience applauded him loudly. Upon hearing all the clapping, Enjolras finally looked up, and was visibly relieved that he wasn’t greeted by Grantaire’s oily, fit nakedness. Grantaire beckoned him to stand up and he did, walking to the stripper slowly. The brunet had his cop walkie-talkie in his hand; he activated it and spoke loudly.

“Give it up for birthday boy!” The audience cheered. “Hope you had a good one,” he said, looking directly at Enjolras. He lowered the radio and hugged Enjolras good-naturedly. As soon as Enjolras hugged back, Grantaire tipped him back and kissed him full on the mouth for several long seconds. Enjolras was too stunned and inwardly ecstatic to push him away, so he only took it. The Amis were cheering especially loudly, taking pictures and videos. Combeferre’s phone camera had the flash on.

Grantaire finally pulled him back up and steadied him, turned him toward the stairs, and beckoned him to move by slapping his ass playfully. Enjolras was too stunned still to question anything, so he walked down the stairs in a daze and sat back down in his seat.

Grantaire, now that his show was over, picked up all his stuff and walked offstage, ready to shower and finish his shift, to join in Enjolras’s birthday celebrations.

 

“Did you like your present?” Courfeyrac waggled his eyebrows. Enjolras glared at him.

“I’m still gonna fucking murder you.”

“Did you know Grantaire is showering backstage because he’s about to dress nicely and tell you he’s really in love with you?”

Enjolras stared at him. “What?”

“He only agreed to do this because all of us assured him you are very much infatuated with him, just as he is with you. So after this, he’s going to tell you,” Joly grinned. He was as red-faced as Enjolras.

Enjolras stared at him now. “What?”

“This was your first date, dude,” Bahorel raised his eyebrow. Enjolras stared at him next, but only for a few moments.

“Oh, my god.” He sprung off his seat and made his way to the ‘employees only’ door toward the back of the room, face set with determination. The Amis observed as he argued with the one security guard at the door for less than fifteen seconds before he was let in.

“I still think he’s gonna kill us,” quipped Jehan.

“Who cares about that? Who got the best video?! Did you get any good photos?”

“Combeferre, we all know you got the best video. Stop rubbing it in.”

“That’s exactly what Enjolras was not saying five minutes ago.”