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Enjolras snatches up some matching stockings and a garter belt, to go with the teddy and thong ensemble—Grantaire doesn’t see, because Grantaire is leaning against the wall in front of the store, still attempting to fully recover from his dressing room orgasm. The only reason Enjolras has managed to leave the dressing room in the first place is because he’s tucked his erection into the waistband of his (much less sexy) boxer shorts, and if he thinks of annoying things like math and the annoying sales clerk asking him if he’d like to sign up for a rewards card, it might finally go away.
But then he thinks about what he’s buying, delicate lace garments in black, and how Grantaire has threatened to make him come in his pretty new thong once they finally get home, and nope—his hard-on is here to stay. He can still taste Grantaire in the corners of his mouth, and that isn’t exactly helping matters, either.
After that, when they walk out of the mall together, Enjolras can’t even look at Grantaire, because the sight of his hands and the curve of his mouth when he licks his lips is definitely going to make him do something drastic, and jesus fuck if Enjolras can’t even make it home without misbehaving he might have to wait even longer before Grantaire will make him come and while punishment is among Enjolras’s favorite things inside the metaphorical bedroom (or any semi-private or public place, really) he does not need to be made to wait to come.
So on the drive home, Enjolras clings to the steering wheel and keeps his eyes on the road.
When they get back to the apartment and step out of the car, Enjolras shivers when Grantaire tells him he’s a good boy, tries to act casual as he definitely does not dash up to their bedroom with his pink shopping bag in hand, leaving Grantaire chuckling behind him.
…..
“Jesus christ you’re trying to fucking kill me, aren’t you?” Grantaire mutters, when Enjolras finally opens up the bedroom door. His outfit is almost the same as before: a top of black lace with a matching thong—damp with his precome, by now—though now sheer stockings hug his thighs, his calves, held up by a flimsy garter belt hooked around his waist.
(He’d had to do a very quick Google search, to figure out how that one worked, exactly, and it was good that Grantaire was patient for him, for this.)
Enjolras doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know how to be sexy, not really, so he just stands there with his palms upturned and hopes Grantaire will get on with it, hopes that the lingerie is enough.
Of course it’s enough, and he never gets tired of seeing Grantaire react like this, the shock and the arousal coursing through his limbs every single time until he snaps back his control from Enjolras and gives him just what he wants.
“You’re aching for me to fuck you, aren’t you?” Grantaire asks, and lounges against the doorframe. There it is. The control—in the set of his spine and almost-arrogant tone of his voice. Enjolras walks backwards until he finds the bed, and sits, waits for further instruction.
“Hands and knees, that’s a good boy,” Grantaire says airily, and Enjolras is quick to comply, and to arch his back and stick his ass out in a way that looks most appealing. A mute appeal to be fucked, and soon. He wiggles his ass, for emphasis.
Then Grantaire’s fist is latched into his hair and Enjolras hisses in pain-pleasure when Grantaire pulls back on it, hard, baring Enjolras’s neck to Grantaire’s teeth as they skate along his throat. Enjolras whimpers, and Grantaire pulls harder—he can feel Grantaire’s smirk against his pulse.
“I like the stockings,” he whispers, his voice rough with arousal.
Grantaire moves up to kiss him, then, and Enjolras opens his mouth and it’s hungry and it turns out the hands-and-knees thing isn’t quite working, because Grantaire pushes him down onto the bed and nudges a still jean-clad thigh between Enjolras’s legs for Enjolras to rut against. And christ the friction of lace and denim and jesus fuck he’s been hard for forty five minutes now and even despite the lingerie this is starting to tread into downright vanilla territory for the both of them—
“Please, please. Fuck. Please fuck me. Pleaseplease fuck me. Take me apart. Fuck,” Enjolras babbles, and groans into Grantaire’s mouth.
But then Grantaire pulls back, sits back on his heels to look down at Enjolras and smile with red, swollen lips. His hand drags along the elastic of Enjolras’s underwear, and he slips two fingers in and starts to tug.
Enjolras opens his mouth to protest, when he hears the lace first begin to tear in Grantaire’s hand. That underwear was expensive, damn it, and he doesn’t (does) want to have to go out and buy any more. But it’s thin, thin lace and too easy to rip off—so Grantaire rips it off, leaving Enjolras to inhale sharply and thrust his hips into the air, desperately seeking some of the friction lost.
“You’ve done enough begging, I think,” Grantaire says, though his wide, dark pupils betray the coolness in his voice as he surveys Enjolras, struggling not to touch himself on their bed. “But I don’t trust the needy little slut to be quiet on his own.”
And Enjolras keeps his mouth open, because he knows what’s coming, and wants it. If he closes his mouth then Grantaire won’t do it—won’t consider it again—so Enjolras opens his mouth wider to accommodate the scrap of lace that Grantaire is pushing inside of it. It tastes like new, and a little like flowery perfume from the store, and mostly like himself. Although his cock leaks onto his stomach now, as he moans obscenely around the fabric in his mouth, and Grantaire grips his jaw tight and leans in again to bite down on his lower lip. The lace is rough against his tongue and the roof of his mouth, and quickly grows damp with his saliva. When Grantaire stands up to start stripping off his own clothes and throw them to the floor, Enjolras feels like he might be drooling around the panties in his mouth, and he groans again, and spreads his legs wide.
Grantaire moves back between his legs, and he’s brought a bottle of lube with him, this time, retrieved from the designated dresser drawer. He opens it with a click of the cap and drizzles some onto his fingers. Enjolras thrusts up into the air again involuntarily.
“Needy, needy slut,” Grantaire says disapprovingly, as he slides a finger into Enjolras. “You’re going to take me so easily, aren’t you?” He thrusts the fingers in and out without ceremony, without taking his time. “You want me so bad. I don’t even need to open you up to take me, do I?” He wastes little time in adding another finger and scissoring them. Enjolras digs his heels into the mattress to gain purchase as he grinds his hips down onto Grantaire’s fingers, wanting them deeper, wanting more. “My little fucktoy, needing to be used. I’m sorry I’m not going to let you come in your panties this time. Maybe next time. I’ll let you rut against my thigh like a fucking dog until you come in your little lace panties for me.”
Grantaire’s breath comes faster and Enjolras keens as he adds a third finger, and rubs insistently against Enjolras’s prostate until he’s afraid he might come from that alone. His hands grip at the bedsheets and he closes his eyes.
“But for now I think I want to fuck you.”
And with that, Grantaire’s fingers are gone and Enjolras opens his eyes, because this is his favorite part—besides the obvious other favorite parts—watching Grantaire’s face as he first feels Enjolras around him, the combination of concentration and fucked-out bliss when he first pushes in.
It’s fucking perfect, the feeling of fullness, of being driven to the edge and almost splitting but for Grantaire there barely holding him together, as he pushes Enjolras’s legs back and then up until Enjolras is almost bent in two, his legs slung up onto Grantaire’s shoulders. (Yoga classes with Jehan were good for something, obviously.)
Grantaire turns his head to the side, nips with lips and teeth at the black lace that clings to Enjolras’s calf.
“The sight of you in fucking lingerie is going to be the death of me, I swear.” He bites down and swirls his tongue, and Enjolras rocks his hips up, desperate for Grantaire to fucking move damn it. And Grantaire curls his arms around Enjolras’s thighs and starts to thrust in and out of him, tossing his head back and grunting his name like Enjolras is the only other person in the world.
Enjolras should wait for permission to touch himself, he knows, because that’s one of the rules for when they do this, one of the rules he set himself because almost nothing makes him come harder than drawing it out for as long as they can. But fuck it—he’s been hard since he’d slipped into the teddy in the damn Victoria’s Secret dressing room, and he’s been a good boy, he has—so when he reaches down to take himself in hand, Grantaire doesn’t even bat his hand away this time. Enjolras twists his hand and bucks up into his fist, bucks against Grantaire’s cock, and Grantaire moves faster. Blunt fingernails dig red crescent moons (and blue violet bruises that only show up later) inside the cradle of Enjolras’s thighs.
His breath comes faster around the ball of fabric in his mouth—soaking wet now with his spit—as the movement of his hand speeds up, grows more erratic. It won’t be long now, of course, with how he’s waited this one out. The dressing room, Grantaire’s cock in his throat, his come in his throat, the drive home with a shopping bag of skimpy black lace. Grantaire’s hands on him now, his cock pushing and stretching until everything behind Enjolras’s eyelids goes white and he comes across Grantaire’s chest and his own stomach.
He can only lie there, then, fucked-out and satisfied until Grantaire is finished, too. Grantaire’s fucktoy, spread out and gagged—and he clings to Grantaire, scraping red lines down his back when Grantaire cries out and his hips stutter and stutter and still, still buried inside of him like he wants to stay there forever.
Moments later, Grantaire lifts himself up on his elbows to peer down at Enjolras, squinting and trying not to fret. Enjolras feels him take the balled-up underwear from his mouth and chuck it to the floor, but only when he notices that breathing has gotten easier. His jaw hurts, a little, and he opens and closes his mouth.
“You okay?” Grantaire asks.
Enjolras nods slowly, and when Grantaire does not look convinced, Enjolras says, with exasperation that takes some effort to summon, “Yes, I’m fine.”
“Can I go draw us a bath? Or do you need me to stay here with you right now?”
He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it—but his arms move up and circle tight around Grantaire, fingers curved around his shoulder blades. Enjolras nestles his chin against Grantaire’s shoulder and sighs. Yes, going on a field trip to the mall was a very good distraction from finals week.
“I’m glad you liked the lingerie idea,” he mumbles sleepily, and yawns. He feels the familiar rumble of Grantaire’s laughter through his chest and stomach, and tries valiantly to stay aware and awake for the promised bath together (because even Enjolras has his limits, and taking a nap in sex-soaked lingerie is probably one of them.)
When Grantaire half-walks, half-carries him into the bathroom, murmuring into Enjolras’s hair about how good he is, how beautiful and how good, Enjolras knows that this is definitely something they’ll be trying out again.